


Antonym of Silence

by XxTheDarkLordxX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ADHD, Angst, Diary/Journal, Draco is Missing, Family Issues, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Sees Draco through a journal, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter Friendship, M/M, Medium Angst, Missing Persons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Hogwarts, Private Investigator Harry, Rating May Change, Strained Friendships, Writer Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-10-28 11:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxTheDarkLordxX/pseuds/XxTheDarkLordxX
Summary: No witnesses, no sign of a break-in, wards intact and a missing person. Just what happened to Draco Malfoy? Was he even still alive? All Harry's got to go off of is a wrecked house, a silent painting, and a journal full of private emotions. Is it enough? Or will Malfoy remain a mystery unsolved?





	1. Prologue-ish

**Author's Note:**

> This story was unexpected shks. I was on twitter when I saw a random word and it got me thinking. My mind fixated on it and I knew I'd have to write the story. I am hoping this doesn't turn into a long story, but it's me, so fuck me it'll probably be long. Damnit. 
> 
> I want to thank Jess and Gigi for listening to me talk about the idea. Jess for immediately liking it and encouraging me and Gigi for trying to get me to work on my fest fic that's due soon lmao but then fully agreeing with me in it needing to be written. 
> 
> This story is a bit different than what I'm used to, well, in some aspects. I'm sure anyone who has read my letter fics will not be unfamiliar with that lmao. I'm a little nervous about this one. There are going to be parts that I know people aren't going to like. And to be frank, I think that it's an important enough message to write it anyway. 
> 
> I do hope you all enjoy this as much as I will when writing it. I am going to try and write a chapter ahead before posting. I have two chapters done but will only post the first one and then the second after I have the third one done. Can't really give a time frame since inspiration waits for no one.

“So you’ll take the case?”

Harry hoped his face didn’t convey how annoyed he was. Despite the situation, the lady was nice.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a private investigator. While I might specialize in finding missing people, your cat Snookums doesn’t qualify. I’m sure he will come home, and if not the local Animal Shelters will be on the lookout.”

Mrs Butters’ previously friendly face morphed into an ugly sneer as she grabbed her hideous bag that had been snoring and stormed out of his office.

Why he had ever thought becoming a P.I. was ever a good idea was beyond him. The cases people brought him were getting more and more ridiculous as time went on.

A knock on the door had Harry groaning. Couldn’t the day just end already? He debated whether to ignore it completely. Maybe the person would give up and come back another day, or even not at all. That was a much better option.

Against his better judgment, Harry said, “Come in.”

When the door opened and Lucius Malfoy walked in, Harry didn’t just regret the decision, he regretted his entire life existence. Because surely, karma hated him.

“Potter.”

Oh, God. Could he get the cat lady back? Snookums couldn’t be that hard to look for.

Lucius sat in the chair across from him and the first thing Harry noticed was how defeated he looked. His hair was not pristine, there were shadows under his eyes, and his eyes looked as dead as they had during the battle of Hogwarts.

“Are you—” Harry leaned forward in an attempt to see if Lucius really looked as shitty as he seemed. “Are you okay?”

Lucius’ fists clenched over the arm of the chair as he sneered.

“You tell me. My son is missing, the Ministry doesn’t care and I’m sitting in front of_ you_.”

Harry sat back with a surprised, ‘oof’. He ignored the insult entirely. “Is this recent? I haven’t heard anything in the papers.”

“He’s been gone for 6 months.” Lucius glanced at the ceiling as he blinked rapidly and despite everything, Harry felt for him.

“What have the Aurors said?” Harry asked as he pulled out a quill and began taking notes. He wasn’t sure he’d take the case but recording everything was the first step.

“A better question would be, ‘what _haven’t_ they said?’” A hollow laugh echoed around the room. “At first, I was told I had to wait longer for it to count as a missing person. Then I was told it looked like he ran away. No matter how many times I tried to tell them that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t, I was ignored. Now they say they don’t have the man-hours to look for him.”

That didn’t surprise Harry. The Ministry had always been shitty. While he may have admired Aurors in the past, it didn’t change that they were governed by corruption nor that they embodied it themselves. As long as the Ministry remained corrupt, the Aurors would never be for the people.

“What made them think your son ran away?”

“Draco was last seen in his flat,” Lucius began, voice tight. “His wards were still up when the Aurors came and there was no sign of a break-in.”

Harry’s lips pursed as his hand stilled, ink dripping on the parchment. “That _is _odd, but that doesn’t mean he ran away.”

“I told them that,” Lucius sneered and for once, it wasn’t directed at him. “Not like they cared what I said.”

“Are you close to your son?” Harry asked, sighing when the drops of ink had spread into a giant blob over the beginning of his notes. “Would he have talked to you if he had decided to leave?”

When there was no answer, he looked up, brows arching at the closed-off expression and unfriendly eyes.

“Look,” Harry began, laying down the quill and crossing his arms. “I’m not here to judge you, I’m not here to care about anything other than the case. Which is finding your son. _If _I take the case, I need honesty and I need transparency. I can’t be expected to perform with half the information.”

Lucius closed his eyes and it was obvious how stressed he was.

“My son and I don’t get along, haven’t gotten along for most of his life.”

Well, that was surprising. “Any particular reason why?”

A glare was his response. Perhaps he had overstepped.

“Do I think he would tell me? No. But he would tell my wife. They are much closer.”

Much closer. Odd phrasing. Why was Malfoy not close to his parents? Harry’s memories of Hogwarts showed parents that cared enough to send their son gifts and letters. Clearly, behind closed doors was another story entirely.

“I love my son, Potter. He may not think so, but I do. I _know _something bad happened to him and I just want answers. My wife is beside herself and I’m not doing okay either.”

Harry placed his chin in his hand as he regarded Lucius closely. If it was anyone but Lucius, he’d have taken the case in a heartbeat. The Malfoy family was not one he thought of often or ever wanted to.

Silver eyes that used to be filled with coldness and superiority were now filled with sombre and devastation. As much as he detested the Malfoy family, no one deserved to go through losing their son. Even if Malfoy was a prat.

“Alright,” Harry pulled out a thick file. “I’m going to need you to fill all of this out and send it back to me. It goes over the contract since I am for hire. The folder also holds detailed questions that I need you to answer _honestly_. It’ll give me more information should I need it.”

Shaky hands reached forward and for the first time since Lucius walked in, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“I’m going to get you answers,” Harry promised. He couldn’t promise Malfoy’s return, but he _would _find answers. He wasn’t the best Magical Private Investigator the wizarding world had seen for no reason.

_“Thank you,” _Lucius whispered, the emotion in his voice was palpable and it lingered long after he had left.

Harry leaned back in his chair as he looked over his notes, or rather what he could make out of them through the ink stains.

Was Malfoy alive? Had he run away? Did something untoward happen?

Just what happened to Draco Malfoy?

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Harry didn’t say anything, but that was alright, Luna always knew what wasn’t said.

“I worry about you,” she continued before the sound of shuffling cards was heard. “My readings on you always come back mixed.”

“Your readings are bullshit.”

“I take offence to that.”

Harry looked up at her from his position on the floor. Her eyes were on a deck of tarot cards, forehead wrinkled but there was a small smile on her face.

“No, you don’t.”

“I will have you know, my clients all love me.”

Harry snorted. “Your clients are Muggles who think you can tell the future.”

“So?”

“So they aren’t qualified to judge anything.” 

“I still help them,” she whispered. There wasn’t a counter-argument for that. Despite her job being a total sham, Luna _was _helping people. Not just with a piece of mind, but she could tell things about people; knew what was bothering them and used the cards to guide them.

Against his better judgment, Harry asked, “I’ll bite, what does your intuition say about me taking the case?”

Luna was silent for a while, far longer than he expected. He tilted his head to look but jerked back when he realized her full attention was on him. The last time she had ever given him such focus was when he broke off his engagement and then later relationship with Ginny.

“If you take this case, everything is going to change.”

“For Malfoy?”

When Luna shook her head, he frowned.

“Why would finding Malfoy change anything for me?”

“You don’t know that you’ll find him.”

Harry sat up, hands wrapping around his knees. “You telling me I won’t? Is he dead?”

“I didn’t say that,” she whispered, voice as soft as ever but there was a sadness to them that he didn’t understand.

“You implied it.”

“Harry.”

He closed his eyes before placing his head on his knees. Every time he talked to Luna, he walked out feeling introspective. Harry was tired of looking within, tired of thinking about himself and tired of examining his emotions.

“You’re the most important person in my life, Harry,” Luna continued and Harry’s heart melted. “My best friend. I just—” She put the cards down and _that _made him nervous. It was serious and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any of it.

“I’m not sure what will happen,” Luna admitted with a small frown. “All I know is that change is coming and I don’t know if it’s benevolent.”

“My whole life has been nothing but changes,” Harry pointed out. “I’m used to adapting. I’ll handle whatever happens like I always have; a touch of stupidity and a whole lot of reckless bravery.”

When her lips twitched, he knew it would be okay.

“I can’t not take the case,” Harry said, his lips tugging downward. “If I turn Lucius away, then what? Who’s going to look for Malfoy? The Aurors won’t, I_ know_ they won’t. If Lucius of all people is coming to me, he’s desperate. I might be the only shot at finding out what happened to his son.”

“I know.” The tone was sad but resigned. Luna knew he had to do it, and he suspected she had always known that.

“I’ll be okay,” he promised, not knowing if he could truly honour that. “I always am.”

“Not always.”

“Well,” he shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’ll get there, eventually.”

“Yeah,” Luna agreed, a small smile stretching her lips. “You will.”

That was the comfort he had been seeking. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have his own reservations when it came to taking the case, but regardless of what he thought, it had to be done. He’d look for Malfoy and take the repercussions of that.

Even if it brought unwanted change.


	2. Messy Contradictions

When Harry met Lucius outside of Malfoy’s flat, it became real. He was really doing it, really going to look for Draco Malfoy: pretentious git extraordinaire.

“The wards are down,” Harry said the closer he got to the door. The absence of them was strange since he had been told there was no sign of a break-in.

“The Aurors dismantled them in their investigation.”

Harry wished they hadn’t. It would have made tracing Malfoy’s magic a hell of a lot easier. It would have given him a chance to see the power in the spells and even the creative design of the wards; all of which give insight into the caster.

“I unlocked the door for you.”

The phrasing had his hand pausing on the knob to peer at Lucius. “Are you not coming in?”

Lucius’ hands were in his robes and his eyes were downcast. “My son didn’t want me to see his home. An invitation had never been extended. Missing or not I’m going to respect his wishes.”

Oh.

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that. There was a lot to unpack in their father-son relationship, something he’d have to look into later, but now was not later, and he’d like to push it off for as long as possible. 

The first thing he noticed when he entered was that the place was a mess. An absolute mess. There were books—so many books—everywhere. Piles of them towering over, books on the floor, books on every available chair and love seat.

Had Malfoy raided an entire library?

It wasn’t until he looked at a few of the stacks that he realized in horror that they were organized, however messily it was. One pile of books was on Ancient Runes, another on the struggles of 12th-century wizards. Even the books thrown on the couch were organized by varying degrees of Dark Magic.

How in the world did Malfoy function in such clutter? The word clutter felt like an antonym when it came to Malfoy’s personality. Although, he had never known him enough for that.

“Fucking mess,” Harry shook his head as he had to stretch his legs to avoid stepping on half-finished parchments that had been thrown on the floor. Had the Aurors done that? Normally, he’d have said no, but the Ministry had never been a fan of the Malfoy family.

The further he went into the flat, the less he thought the mess was done by Aurors. Every room was a disaster. There were books in the kitchen, the cupboards and one was even in the bloody sink! What would possess someone to need that many books?

Messy organization was an apparent theme. Each cupboard had been sectioned in different groups, all relating to food. Malfoy had books on types of food, how to cook, and foreign dishes, but there wasn’t any actual food in sight.

When he looked in the bathroom, he wasn’t surprised to see books. Nothing would surprise him at this point.

Lucius had said that someone had left Malfoy’s house by floo, but the only room with a fireplace was an office. An office that was clean,_ actually clean. _

Harry stood in the doorway and just stared. _Why _was the office the only room that was tidy? It was so meticulously spotless that it reminded him of Aunt Petunia. The floor was pristine, the shelves were straight, the books weren’t half-hazardously thrown around, and the desk was neat.

The only thing that stood out was a painting. A self-portrait over the mantle. He couldn’t help but snort. Malfoy _would _get a self-portrait done while alive, the egotistical prat. 

The painting was glaring at him and looked so offended that Harry laughed—which painting-Malfoy did not appreciate.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know what happened to your alive counterpart, would you?” Harry asked as he stepped closer to the painting.

Painting-Malfoy’s mouth was moving but there was no sound. Which was quite odd.

“Are you broken?”

He was flipped off and that had him snorting.

“I’m assuming you can understand me.” The look he got was so reminiscent of their youth that it felt familiar. Ah, nostalgia in the form of bad memories really was a punch to the gut.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a private investigator.” Painting-Malfoy did not look impressed. “Your father hired me to find out what happened to your counterpart.”

Painting-Malfoy’s face twisted in a variety of emotions before he was back to glaring.

“I’m going to do my best to find him and bring him back to you, okay?”

The painting only stared, and he seemed a bit lost, but Harry could relate to that. He was lost himself.

“Malfoy being estranged with his father makes my life harder,” Harry mumbled as he sat down on, arms resting on the desk. There was no one to tell him what Malfoy did in his day to day life, no one to tell him who his friends were. There was no one.

Harry looked around the room, once again marvelling at how drastically different it was to the rest of the house. The desk only had a journal on it. His hands were trailing along the seam when he felt eyes on him.

Painting-Malfoy was shaking his head and pointing at the journal.

“I get it,” Harry said. “You don’t want me to invade his privacy, but I _have _to. Lucius knows nothing about you, and I haven’t the foggiest clue who your friends are. There’s no record of you having a job, and the Goblins won’t give me a transaction report of your vaults unless I have a court order. I can’t get a court order from the Wizengamot without indication that you are missing which the Aurors refuse to declare. They think you’ve left of your own volition.”

The painting was still shaking his head, hands folded across his chest accompanied with a harsh sneer.

“If there are any clues to your life in here, then I _need _to look at it. I’m sure your counterpart would agree with me.”

Painting-Malfoy scoffed before hitting a hand against the canvas. There was no noise, but the message was clear, he was not happy.

Oh well.

Harry leafed through the journal, noticing that it was nearly completed, only a few blank pages left. With slight trepidation and mainly curiosity, he read the first entry.

** _Tuesday_ **

_I’m not sure why I’ve started another journal. My mind healer suggested it might help when I can’t settle down, but it doesn’t work all the way, not really. My mind is always active, and I have the urge to do something but never knowing what. I can’t concentrate for long and it makes writing so hard. _

_Reading helps, but Merlin knows I don’t need another book. _

_I had the urge to know more about poisonous Magical Creatures and when I had finally read all the ones I had, I thought maybe I could go to sleep. There was nothing else to read on the subject and maybe my mind would let it go. But the last paragraph talked about how the poison can be siphoned out for potions and then I couldn’t stop wondering how that would work. _

_Left one fixation for another one. _

_I don’t understand why I can’t just let things go. I see something out of context, even just a word and my mind is off in a million different directions. Nothing stops it either. Once I get interested, I have to see it through, and I hate it. _

_I’m tired, the flat is a mess and I know I need to clean, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. I think about it when doing other stuff which halts my concentration on whatever task I’m doing. That leads to me worrying about them both while then moving onto something else. I feel like my mind is constantly going, never stopping. Can’t relax unless I’m reading. _

_My mind is empty when I read. The only time the worries leave, the only time I don’t have to think of the next thing on my list is when I have a book in my hands. I wish I could read forever, never-ending. _

_My father sent another letter. I didn’t open it, left it with the others. I know he wants to mend things but how do you mend what is shattered? How am I supposed to see him and not think of everything else? How am I supposed to go on if he’s a reminder of it all? I don’t want to see him. _

_But why do I miss him? _

_It’s not as if he had ever been there, not really. Physically present, but what good is that if it’s only ever in silence? How can I miss someone who wasn’t even there? Why do I feel so guilty every time I leave his letters unopened? I know he cares in his own way, but I needed more than that. I needed him to care in tangible ways and I never got that. Is it a grudge? Am I refusing to see him change by not seeing him at all? _

_I don’t even know anymore. _

_Even now, as I write, my mind is thinking of other things I need to do, things that I should be doing instead. My mind won’t let me breathe and I don’t know what to do anymore. My healer said it’s stress, but that can’t be it. What am I stressed about? My father? My writing? I don’t have the stress she thinks I do. _

_I know something is wrong. I’m at my wit's end and I just want my mind to shut up, for once. Sometimes I wish I could leave, just up and leave and see if I would be okay. But you can’t leave your mind behind, can you? What good would it do? _

_The unknown isn’t preferable. I’d rather stay in the familiar. It doesn’t stop the what-ifs though. Something I can’t help but think about. _

_I want to write. I want to finish my manuscript. There are days when I feel like I can do it, that I’m one step closer. Except, the days where I can’t do anything but read outnumber those days. My dream is in the palm of my hands and I can’t even escape my mind for it. _

_What does that say about me? _

_I think my healer is full of it, but maybe writing my thoughts down will help me get back into writing my stories. Maybe I can get back on track. All I can rely on are maybes. _

_I guess it’ll have to be enough. _

** _—Draco_ **

Harry read the letter again, a frown on his face. His head lifted and despite looking at the wall, he wasn’t seeing it.

“Well, that sounds like…” He read it again, and then one more time before looking toward the painting, who was still glaring at him.

“I think Malfoy has ADHD.”

The glare receded and was replaced with confusion.

“Do you know what that is?”

Harry hadn’t realized there was a condescending way to shake one’s head but leave it to Malfoy to do it.

“ADHD is an Attention-Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. It’s a disorder that is determined by a pattern of inattention or hyperactivity. There are a few types of ADHD and some people have more than one. I’m not an expert, had a case a few months ago with a kid who was a hyperactive-impulsive type, so I did some research. But I _think _your counterpart has inattentive type.

The glare had returned, and it was clear painting-Malfoy did not understand.

“Inattentive ADHD can show in symptoms like having trouble staying focused, a lack of organization, easily distracted, avoiding or procrastinating stuff that might require a lot of focus, and can make simple but frequent mistakes when writing/reading.”

Painting-Malfoy froze, and Harry watched understanding flash across his face despite being confused. 

“I’m sure there are more symptoms but I didn’t look that closely.” 

The painting still hadn’t talked, and Harry wondered why that was. Maybe he didn’t _want _to?

“I’m surprised you didn’t know what it was.” Another glare had him rolling his eyes. “Clearly, your counterpart is smart. The sheer number of books out there shows a vast knowledge in a bunch of shit.”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head and his hands moved back and forth in an attempt to get some kind of message across. But Harry had no idea what that was.

“Do wizards not get diagnosed with it often?” When he kept shaking his head, Harry frowned. “Do they not ever get diagnosed with it?”

The way painting-Malfoy stopped moving suggested that he might be right. Harry pulled his cell phone out of his trousers and hoped there wasn’t a bunch of magic in the air that would disrupt it. Considering the home hadn’t been inhabited in months, he figured it was safe.

“Come on, pick up,” Harry whispered when it just rang and rang.

“Harry?”

He quickly put it on speakerphone so he could take notes, just in case. “Why are you calling when I’m at work? I had to floo out of my office to get away from lingering magic.”

“Sorry, Hermione but I need your help with something, it’s for a case.”

“Oh, okay. You don’t usually need my help.” It was slightly miffed, and it caused him to smile.

“Do healers not diagnose ADHD?”

There was a brief silence before Hermione made a noise of some kind. “Hmm, you know, I don’t think I’ve ever given it much thought.”

Disappointment filled him and he slumped into the chair.

“I’ve never met a wizard with ADHD,” Hermione continued. “But disorders aren’t a Muggle versus Wizard thing. Sure, there are diseases that are in the Muggle world that don’t touch wizards, but I think that’s due to the separation of societies. I imagine a wizard could contract anything if they were around it, same with Muggles.”

“So you think it’s possible that wizards can have ADHD?”

“Well that’s a lot different than a contracted disease. ADHD is a disorder and not contagious.”

“I _know _that.”

“But I think it’s just as likely as a Muggle. It’s a matter of the brain, not something that happens due to environment. I imagine there are a lot of wizards who might have it and never know it.”

Harry’s fingers tapped against the desk. “Why do you think that is? I thought wizard healers were more advanced than Muggles. Why wouldn’t they have something to help?”

“I don’t have the answer to that,” Hermione said softly. “There are hundreds of Muggle advancements that wizards know nothing about. Wizards _are _advanced in so many ways, but they are also very archaic in others. Wizards don’t like change, Harry. You can’t advance a society if there aren’t people willing to change things, people willing to experiment, expand or grow.”

Silence stretched as Harry thought it over. It bothered him that there could be people out there struggling and not ever knowing that there were means to help them. Where did it stop? Were there other disorders, conditions and diseases that wizards just suffered through?

“You have a client that might have ADHD?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered as he glanced at the portrait. Painting-Malfoy looked a bit stricken and even though it wasn’t the real Malfoy, Harry felt bad for him. “I just have to find him first.”

“Mm,” Hermione began, tone a little concerned. “I don’t think I’m following.”

“Complicated,” Harry said with a huff. “I haven’t figured it all out myself.”

“Alright.” There was a pause before, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but Ron misses you as well.”

Harry’s eyes closed and his stomach clenched like it always did whenever they talked about it. “I miss him too, you know I do, but you also know my stance.”

“I know.” It was said so sadly and Harry regretted calling at all. “I got to get back to work, call me soon? Please. It’s been too long.”

“Alright,” he promised, not sure if it was a lie. “I’ll try.”

Harry threw the phone on the desk and covered his face. “Fuck.” He had known better, he really had. It wasn’t like he _wanted _to be away from them. Ron and Hermione were his family and distancing himself took a toll, a massive one.

When he looked up, painting-Malfoy was watching him with an arched brow.

“Friend troubles.”

A second brow arched, and Harry sighed. Nosy git. He leaned back in the chair, feet resting on the desk; much to the horror of painting-Malfoy, who’s mouth parted, forehead wrinkled harshly, and an angry finger pointed at him.

“Did you know I almost became an Auror?”

The disgust on his face had Harry snorting. “Yeah, I feel the same now, but back then it was a dream of mine. Sort of. I didn’t know what I wanted to be in school. Was more worried about making it till the end of the year without an attack from Voldemort.”

Painting-Malfoy shuddered but that wasn’t a surprise, and Harry didn’t really care either.

“The people around me who helped the most were Aurors. They risked so much, and I thought it was admirable. I wanted to do that, help others the same way.”

Child naivety, he supposed. Aurors searched for bad wizards, caught local delinquents and helped citizens. It seemed so similar to the Order’s interests and in a way, it reminded him of his parents.

“But after training the Aurors—” Harry’s fists clenched. “They pick and choose who they care about. They pick and choose what laws to uphold and decide who gets away with what. Some Aurors think they are above the law and have this entitlement that _scares_ me. Someone in such an authoritative position who could abuse it, is horrifying.”

Bad memories were all he could see, and he wondered why he was telling a painting them when he had a hard time explaining himself to Hermione. Maybe it was because the painting was silent, someone who couldn’t talk back. Maybe because he’d never know what the painting truly thought. No one to verbally judge.

“My first patrol out of training was supposed to be routine,” Harry whispered, eyes closing at the memory of the screams that haunted his nightmares. “We got a report that someone was harassing people in Hogsmeade. When we got there, it was just a kid. She couldn’t have been more than 16 at best.”

He looked up at painting Malfoy and could see a sadness to them, but it held no surprise. And wasn’t that just depressing?

“She had a mouth on her, but what kid doesn’t? I used to say worse things to Snape, and that was _knowing_ his detention methods. But my partner, the one I was shadowing he just—” His fists clenched, breath coming quicker.

“He cursed her. She didn’t even have a wand out. It wasn’t an unforgivable, but it didn’t have to be to hurt. Her screams were loud enough to attract a crowd and it was like my partner fed off the attention. He just kept going. I tried to stop him—” Harry blew out a big breath, hoping it would help keep his emotions in check.

“He wouldn’t listen, so I immobilized him. Stunned him and brought him back. And you know what my superiors did? They sanctioned me. Said I was interfering in an investigation and harmed a fellow Auror. It didn’t matter that he had harmed a fucking kid for no reason. It didn’t matter that if I hadn’t stopped him, who knows what would have happened to her. They didn’t care, and you know why they didn’t care? Because they think that anyone who doesn’t bow to their whims is resisting. A kid with a bad mouth and no tolerance for authority was seen as a threat.

“A teenager, a teenager was a threat to them? _How? _She didn’t even have a wand out, where was she resisting? I had to deliver my own sanction to the file clerk, and you know what I found? Dozens of similar cases. That girl wasn’t the first and she sure as hell wasn’t the last. I’ve always known the Ministry was corrupt, but I didn’t think the Aurors were too.”

The look he got in return was almost pitying and if he could, Harry would hex the painting. “Not all of us can be as keen as you. I got there eventually but my eye-opener was a real person who got harmed. I know there are good Aurors, ones like Ron, but they don’t justify the bad ones. They don’t cover or make up for the harm done by others. My morals wouldn’t let me stay there. I refused to be around that, even if it was by proxy.”

Harry’s fingers traced the journal and he knew his face was morphed in a frown. “Ron stayed and I don’t understand how he could.” He had tried to listen, tried to hear Ron’s input but nothing made it okay.

“They’re hurting people,” He whispered, eyes on the painting but he wasn’t really seeing it. All he could see was the girl who had been a victim of someone’s brutality, someone who was supposed to help, not harm.

“Every other week I see reports in the papers of more people harmed at the hands of Aurors. They’re downplayed and worded in the same way my supervisors did. Some are actual criminals but how is that a justification? Just because they are to be taken in doesn’t mean their life is suddenly not important. I had to leave. I had to get out of there before my own integrity was gone. That’s not something you can get back.

“I just don’t understand how he could stay knowing all of that. The little good that they do isn’t enough, it’s _not_. We both have short tempers and we fought. Words might not be said anymore but the fight hasn’t gone and neither one of us is willing to let it go. I _can’t _let it go. Not when it means compromising my own morals. I refuse.”

He shook his head, eyes focusing. Painting-Malfoy had a calculating look in his eyes, but he didn’t have the foggiest idea what that meant, nor did he have the patience to figure it out.

“I still wanted to help people,” Harry shrugged. “So I opened my business. I take cases that Aurors refuse to, or ones that never get reported to them. Sometimes I get some… questionable ones as well.” He couldn't’ help but snort at the thought of Snookums.

“But it’s enough. I’m helping and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

There wasn’t a smile on painting Malfoy’s face, but it wasn’t emotionless either; a step in the right direction.

“I’m going to help you too,” Harry continued, clearing his throat. Talking had helped a bit, he felt lighter than he had before. “If I can’t find bring you home, then at the very least, I’m going to find some answers. Which means more journal entries.” He lifted the book with a shake of his hands. 

The shaking of a head had Harry rolling his eyes. “I know you don’t want me here, but tough luck. Not only am I being paid for it, but I’m curious and I _want _to look for your counterpart.”

Painting-Malfoy regarded him intently, eyes searching for something before he huffed and gestured his hand forward as if giving approval.

Well, it wasn’t every day he got a painting’s approval.

“I want to take this with me,” Harry nodded to the journal.

A violent head shake and a waving of arms had him sighing. “Okay, fine. I’ll just come back and read it in sections. That alright with you?”

Another head shake but it lacked the passion as the other one. “Too bad.”

Painting-Malfoy flipped him off before turning his back on Harry. Some goodbye. With one last look around the room, Harry left, shutting the door softly behind him.

Malfoy’s flat was filled with a lot of contradictions and he had a hunch that it matched his person to a tee. Now all he had to do was find some evidence and bring him back.

Harry _was_ the best Magical Private Investigator—self-titled—after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Back for the weekly update. This chapter was interesting to write, that's for sure. I think the message in the story is pretty important but I'm not going to preach or go into details, we all can read between the lines. 
> 
> What I do want to know is your thoughts on painting-Malfoy shksks. Gosh he's a lot of fun to write and I think even silent, he could give his counterpart a run for his money. Trying to picture them both in the same room makes me laugh. As for the friendship between Ron and Harry. They will always be friends, but there are some things that can't be overlooked. This is something Harry feels that strongly about and it's something that'll take time for them to talk through and understand. There's no bashing, there's nothing like that going on. It's just friends who aren't seeing eye to eye and need a break
> 
> Okay, let me know what you thought! And I'll see you next week!
> 
> -XxTheDarkLordxX


	3. Organized Mess

** _Saturday,_ **

_Mother tried to floo today, I didn’t answer. She misses me, I know she does. I just wish I felt the same. I miss what we used to have. I miss what we could have been. As a kid, mother was around more than father but still not enough to be there for me. I know she loves me, but not enough as she does father. If she did, she would have walked away when I begged her to. She would have refused to get involved in the war. Instead, she stayed, and I had to as well. Who would have protected her otherwise? Definitely not father. Not with his superiority complex; not with his belief of being infallible. _

_And where did that get him? Azkaban. Taken down by a bunch teenagers and a handful of the Order. The great and mighty Lucius Malfoy couldn’t handle it. Infallible my arse. _

_With him gone, I thought maybe she would see the light. Maybe she’d understand what a losing battle it was. ‘We have to stand for something, Draco’ she’d say. But what were we standing for? What was it for? What was the reason? The Dark Lord? Surely not. Surely that couldn’t have been what she threw away a shot at freedom for. _

_I don’t know what I stand for. What did the Light stand for? Was it just a means of getting rid of the Dark Lord? Or did they have a mantra for their cause? What made them so prepared to die? Perhaps it’s cowardice of me, but it didn’t sound worth it. My life in potential danger just to take down someone else? No, not for me. I didn’t see the appeal in either side. I wanted nothing to do with their war. _

_Never did get what I wanted. _

_Do you know what I hate the most about my decision to become a Death Eater? The way my mother was surprised. What the fuck did she think was going to happen? Father was gone, the house was under the Dark Lord’s control, and she knew the Malfoy usefulness had run dry. The speeches on my lack of a cause, the way her and Bellatrix would tag team me in the ‘proper’ ways to speak to the Dark Lord; it all led to one decision. So why the surprise? _

_The subliminal message was there. Someone had to do it, she didn’t have the stomach to; so that left me. If father hadn’t gotten caught, then I might not have this stain on my arm and one to match in my heart. _

_There is so much of my life that I can attribute my upbringing to, so much that I can blame it on. Except, when does that stop mattering? When do I take accountability of my own decisions? As much as I blame them, I willingly held out my arm. I willingly let him brand me. I willingly became a Death Eater. I have to own that regardless of the circumstances that got me there. _

_The irony of it all was my first assignment. The excruciating pain of the Dark Mark hadn’t even faded before I was demanded to kill Dumbledore. I might have been naive to think I knew what I was doing but I wasn’t stupid. I was never meant to survive. The twisted smirk on his face didn’t speak anything but ill intent. It was a death sentence, one I walked right into with my head held high—however fictitious it was. _

_The Dark Lord had gone up against Dumbledore countless times and lost. So how was a bloody teenager supposed to do it?_

_I wasn’t. _

_I was meant to die trying. It was a punishment for my father. How many times is my life going to be fucked because of his choices? He was the one who failed so why was I the one to be punished? _

_Purebloods like to think we are above everyone and everything, but I would give it up in a heartbeat to be someone other than a Malfoy. What did it ever get me but pain? What did it ever get me but a life-lasting hatred of my own reflection?_

_Is there privilege in having it all but not wanting it? _

_When I see them, there’s so much I want to say but all that comes out is silence. Growing up with nothing but silence left me wary of noise. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. _

_Mother risked her life to ask Potter if I was alive. I’ve never known what to think of that. It was the first time in my life that she put me first. I risked everything at all times, and I hate that I feel like I owe her something. _

_I know my parents love me, but not in the way I ever deserved. It kills me knowing that they truly think they did what they thought was right. I was never their first priority, only the one to pick up the pieces of their failures. I hate that I can see that they love me. If they didn’t, it would be so easy to despise them. _

_How can you hate someone that loves you?_

_I tried talking to my mind healer, but I don’t think she listens to me. Oh, she hears what I’m saying but I feel like it’s not sticking. She doesn’t want to talk about the war, and I get that, but I need to. How am I to move on if I can’t talk about it? I think I need a new one. That would mean getting used to someone else though, and I don’t know if it’s worth it. _

_A lot of my life is a mess, one of my own doing. Eventually, I’ll figure out what to do about it, but that’s not now. For now, I’ll continue to ignore their floo calls, I’ll continue to ignore their letters, and I’ll continue with the familiar—being alone. No one to disappoint but yourself when alone. _

_I’m alright, for now. _

** _—Draco_ **

* * *

The familiar gate and wandering peacocks filled Harry with a diluted horror. Never did he think he’d have to go to the Malfoy Manor again. Wherever Malfoy was, he’d better appreciate Harry’s efforts.

The gate opened with a creaky clang as a house-elf descended the stairs. A brief sharp pang of grief gripped him as it always did whenever he saw a house elf.

“Mistress Malfoy is expecting you. Tazzy will lead Mister Potter to the study.”

“Thank you.”

The Manor looked as it did before, at least Harry thought so. His face had been so swollen that it was hard to see anything. As he followed Tazzy he couldn’t help but notice the decor; it was… well expensive—that was about it.

“Is this Mister Potter’s first visit? Tazzy can do a house tour.”

“No, I’ve been here before.” He tried not to let his anger show. It wasn’t Tazzy’s fault.

“In fact, I’m pretty sure I almost died right there,” Harry pointed to the spot underneath a new chandelier. “Almost died on those steps too, and I might have bled over there on the ground.” 

A small squeak left Tazzy and part of him felt guilty.

As they moved down a hallway, Harry stopped at the entrance. The walls were covered in portraits of previous Malfoy’s. The hallway was long, and every inch of the walls had paintings. It would have always been creepy, but as the portraits realized they had company, insults were thrown around loudly.

_“And just who is this? Looks like a Mudblood to me.” _

_“Do use a comb, or are you a beggar?”_

_“Can’t be much magical abilities to you.” _

_“Has Draco allowed him entry? Always knew my grandson was a waste.” _

_“There’s clearly no Dark Magic in him.” _

_“How do we know he’s not a thief?” _

It took a lot of strength to not blast a Bombarda at each bigoted painting. Why would anyone want to subject themselves to the verbal abuse?

“Right this way Mister Potter.”

_“Potter. Pureblood name but a blood traitor.” _

_“No, Brutus, you are thinking of the Potter line when you were alive. The last of the Potter line when I was still around married a Mudblood.” _

_“A half-blood? In the Malfoy Manor? What has your spawn done Abraxas?” _

_“Lucius long ago shamed me, father. Not a spawn of mine.” _

Merlin, was the whole Malfoy line twats that hated their children? Harry sprinted down the hall, ready to leave. Each moment he spent in the Manor was a test of his patience. Never again. He’d never return. Fuck the Malfoy Manor.

Tazzy waited patiently by an open door and he knew it was the study. Despite Narcissa doing what she had in the forest, he can’t say he ever wanted to see her again.

“Mister Potter,” Narcissa said with a tight smile as she nodded in greeting. “Please sit.”

He walked into the room, grateful that there wasn’t a single painting inside. Thank God the one in Malfoy’s flat was silent. Perhaps that’s why Malfoy had it done that way, a stark difference from the hallway portraits.

“Lucius told me you had some questions.”

Her hands were folded but he could see that they were shaking. Nerves?

“Your husband said you were closer to your son than he was.”

Narcissa closed her eyes briefly. “Not as close as I’d have liked.”

“Why is that?’

“Is that relevant?” Her clipped tone had nothing on the cold eyes boring into him.

Harry rolled his eyes, not caring that it came off as unprofessional. “Mrs Malfoy, with all due respect, I’m tired of half-truths and secrets. I need to understand aspects of your son’s life and that includes his relationship with you.”

Narcissa’s hands shook more and part of him was concerned.

“Draco was left alone a lot,” Narcissa breathed deeply. “I didn’t spend the time with him that he needed. He’s never forgiven me for that. Our interests never lined up as he got older. There were arguments here and there, but it wasn’t until my husband had been sent to Azkaban that I knew there was no fixing our relationship.”

Harry took notes but there was obviously missing information. What did she mean that Malfoy was left alone? Wasn’t she in the Manor? Why wouldn’t she have spent time with him?

“My husband handled everything when it came to the Malfoy name. The Manor, our vaults, our spending, debt and anything else. When he left, I realized how dependent I had been on that. I didn’t know what to do without him and unfortunately, that left Draco to be the one responsible in stepping up. He was just a teenager,” Narcissa’s fists clenched before they re-folded.

“I knew it wasn’t his job to take on a role that was never meant for him, but I couldn’t see past my own grief. At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever see Lucius again. Something else my son hasn’t forgiven me for.”

With the journal entry Harry had read earlier, he could understand Malfoy’s side a bit. It was hard finding sympathy for Narcissa, and he wondered if that was his own upbringing at play. Harry couldn’t imagine having a kid and not giving them the love, care and attention that they deserved. Why have a kid at all then?

“Your husband has said that the Aurors think your son ran away,” Harry began, noticing the way her face shuttered. “If he had, would he have said anything to you?”

“I’d like to think he would,” Narcissa whispered, emotion thick in the way it was hoarse. “But I don’t know. We haven’t spoken more than a handful of times in the last year.”

Well, that certainly made things harder. “Do you know who his friends are? People he might have confided in?”

Her lips pursed as her head tilted minutely. “Gregory would be the one he is closest to.”

“Gregory?” The name didn’t sound familiar at all.

“Goyle,” Narcissa said somewhat unkindly.

Oh. Crabbe and Goyle _had _always shadowed Malfoy. That made sense.

“He might have talked to Zabini, but they weren’t that close. Especially after Zabini and Pansy eloped.”

“Wait.” Harry blinked a few times. “Parkinson and Zabini got _married_?”

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Pansy always knew she had to maintain her status. There had been talks of who she would marry. I know her mother wanted a union with the Nott family.”

“Where did Zabini fit into that?”

“He didn’t,” Narcissa said. “Blaise may be a pureblood, but he wasn’t one descended from the sacred 28.”

“What’s that?”

“The last remaining British families that remained truly pureblood.”

“Truly?” He didn’t like the sound of that. Was that some kind of elitism?

“Purebloods whose line only consists of other purebloods. Not a Muggle, Muggleborn or Half-blood in sight.”

Harry arched a brow. “Wouldn’t that imply that the sacred 28 only had that circle to marry into? That surely would have let to incest at some point.”

Narcissa winced slightly. “All of the families are intertwined and some more than others.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Pureblood society.”

Thank fuck Harry wasn’t part of that. “So Parkinson and Zabini weren’t supposed to be together?”

“Merlin no,” Narcissa laughed. “It’s why they eloped. Blaise’s mother isn’t concerned with the same politics that the rest of us are. He had her support.”

The implied message had him frowning. “I take it Parkinson’s family didn’t take it well?”

“They disowned her.”

Harry’s head jerked back. “Because she chose love over family duty? That’s pathetic.”

“Pureblood society.”

How often was that going to be an excuse? Was he expected to understand just off that? Did Narcissa herself believe the same?

“If it had been your son in her place, what would you have done?”

Narcissa’s brows arched briefly. “How will this help Draco?”

“Merely curiosity.”

She was silent for a while, well past what seemed appropriate. He thought about changing the topic but before he could, Narcissa leaned forward.

“Did you know that Lucius and I had an arranged marriage?”

“No.” That sounded archaic. Why were wizards so behind in some aspects?

“I had known since I was a child that I was to be married to him.” There was a small shake of her head, one that had him wondering if she regretted it.

“I didn’t know him enough let alone love him,” Narcissa pursed her lips. “But I hoped it would lead to both. Arranged marriages are business, something I understood but also wanted more.”

“Did you get that?” Harry couldn’t help but wonder. “Did you end up falling in love?”

“Yeah.” There was a small smile on her face, one that spoke more than words. “Slowly and with a lot of patience, I did. Lucius is not an easy person to get along with, but worth it in the end.”

Harry didn’t agree at all, smart enough to not say it, however.

“While I may have found love despite it being arranged, there is no saying Draco would have gotten as lucky. I didn’t want that for him. He will be free to marry whomever he wishes.”

“Regardless of blood status?”

The way she winced was amusing as well as sad. What was with purebloods?

“Lucius wouldn’t like that, but it’s not up to him.”

Huh. Perhaps Narcissa wasn’t as bad as he thought. The real question was would Malfoy only marry a pureblood? He didn’t know him well enough to assume, but it didn’t stop the curiosity.

Harry stared down at his notes, not really sure why he cared enough to ask. Malfoy was interesting in the same way a puzzle was. Frustrating when some pieces were missing but satisfying when a new piece fell in place. With each journal entry he learned something new about Malfoy and it was hard to not want to read it in one sitting.

“Was there any other questions you might have?” Narcissa asked, breaking the silence.

“Would you happen to know where Parkinson and Zabini are?”

The bittersweet smile on her face stuck with him even as he left the Manor, paper crumpled in his hand.

* * *

** _Monday_ ** _, _

_Failure is something I am familiar with. Whether it was my father telling me I was one, not meeting my own academic standards or even my life choices. When it comes to the latter, I wonder what other failures would have come to fruition had I not failed. _

_If I had succeeded in killing Dumbledore, what other mistakes would have arisen? Would I have damaged my soul in the process? Would my life be worse? Would I be in Azkaban? _

_Is it weird to be happy with failure?_

_My father would say yes. Failure to him was a fate not befitting of a Malfoy. But so is being wrong, and yet, that’s all we’ve ever been. Wrong. Being wrong is hard, so hard. While my father may never acknowledge that, I have to. _

_I’ve been wrong about a lot of things in my life. I imagine most people can relate. Except, how many of their wrongs could’ve led to murder? I don’t know how to fix that. How can one be right after being wrong for so long? Is it even possible? _

_To be right, I need to see things objectively—however difficult that may be. _

_Research is the first step. To know exactly why I was wrong, I need to know more about it all. I need to really understand the deeper intentions of my actions, beliefs and words. So, I bought more books. I’m nervous to open them. What will I find? How bad am I? Will knowledge even help?_

_Prejudice. The first topic to explore. _

_Stupidity has never been a descriptor for me, I’ve always known I was prejudiced. How could I not? However, knowing and caring can be polar opposites. Part of it is environment but not enough to use as an excuse. There are those that grew up the same and never believed what I did. _

_Sirius was a prime example. _

_My prejudice may have started as environment, but it was one I welcomed. I didn’t just buy into it; I practiced, preached and embodied it. I was and possibly still am prejudiced. Part of it might be subconscious and that’s what I need to work on the most. I just have to figure out how to do that. Research will help me with the why, and then it’ll be up to me to figure out how to go about changing that. _

_I don’t know how well this will go, it’ll be hard, there’s no quick fix. I know unlearning everything I was taught will be difficult. Part of me will deflect, deny and struggle, so it’ll require a lot of introspection—something I’ve never been good at. But I have to try. I don’t want to be the stares that I get. I see the hate; I see the fear and I see why there’s a lack of kindness. If I want to be right, then I need to be the change that is required. _

_ My intent is to change, and that’s the most important part. You can’t change if you aren’t susceptible to it. If there’s no intent, then the outcome will always be the same; more failures and always being wrong. _

_Let me be right. Let me change. Let me try. _

** _-Draco _ **

* * *

The Manor Harry gazed at was significantly smaller than the Malfoy’s, but it was far homier. There were garden gnomes in tiny suits chasing squirrels, interesting gargoyles perched at the top of the stairs leading to the door, and armour stands filled with bright colourful robes.

Zabini Manor sure was something, that’s for sure.

When he knocked on the door, he expected a house-elf to answer. Seemed typical for pureblood families. What he hadn’t expected was to come face to face with Parkinson, who’s friendly smile vanished at the sight of him.

“Well,” Parkinson whispered, eyes wide. “Can’t say I ever wanted to see you again.”

“I’m charmed.”

The unattractive snort seemed to break some of the tension.

“Can I come in?”

Her eyes narrowed before she looked over her shoulder and yelled, “Oi! Get your arse down here, bleeding heart Potter is at the door.”

“Love, when will you cease your games” The closer Zabini got, the louder his voice got. “ I never fall for—”

Zabini blinked rapidly, one hand on Parkinson’s shoulder and the other on the side of the door.

“Potter.”

Parkinson smacked him on the arm. “Told you, you utter prat.”

“I apologize if this is a bad time,” Harry began, hoping his discomfort wasn’t visible. “I’m a private investigator and I have some questions for both of you.”

“We didn’t do it,” Parkinson said at once. “Whatever it is you want to pin on us, you’ll have to speak to our lawyers.”

Harry snorted. “Feeling guilty, are you?”

Zabini narrowed his eyes and pulled Parkinson closer to him. “We will answer no questions.”

“I’m not here for that,” Harry said in amusement. “I was hired by Lucius Malfoy to find his son.”

The fight went out of them and their hostility dimmed. “He really went to you?” Zabini asked, tone doubtful. “I know Draco has been gone far too long, but to go to you—”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He folded his arms across his chest and glared.

“Nothing,” Parkinson said, elbowing her husband.

“I’ll have you know I’m the best Magical Private Investigator in the country.”

“Is that self-appointed?” Zabini asked before he received another jab to his ribs.

Yes, but it wasn’t like Harry was going to admit that.

“Look,” he clenched his teeth. “I’m here to ask you some questions about Malfoy. If you don’t want to, then let me know so I don’t waste my time.”

The two looked at each other for a long time before they moved aside and let him in.

“Thank you.” Part of him didn’t really mean it. Merlin, they were difficult. 

The interior was just as interesting as the outside. A few chairs were floating while a cat underneath tried to bat at them. There was artwork on the walls, similar to paintings but not quite, the subjects moved among them as they shouted jokes and compliments as he walked by. What he liked the most was the kitchen where knives and forks chased each other around the cupboards before zooming out of the room.

When they entered a study, he was surprised to see it calm. Perhaps that was the only room that didn’t have eccentricities? A chair moved toward him when he fully entered the room and it was clear that it was for him.

“When was the last time you saw Malfoy?” Harry asked, not bothering with pleasantries. He had other places to go and couldn’t waste time.

“Almost a year ago,” Parkinson whispered as she sat on top of a desk. Her eyes were on her hands that began to fiddle with her robes. “When we eloped, we took a long vacation away from here. Almost didn’t come back.”

“Because of your marriage?”

Zabini glared at him but didn’t refute it. “Draco was at our ceremony; he was the only one. That was the last time we saw him.” 

“Was that the last time you talked to him too?”

Parkinson shook her head. “We would floo sometimes, but it was sporadic.”

“Because of the vacation?”

“No.” One corner of Zabini’s moth was lifted. “Draco is an organized mess.”

_That _was obvious by the state of his home.

“He’s constantly moving from one topic, project or task and it’s hard to keep up with. He might contact us repeatedly in a week and then nothing for several months.”

“In his own world,” Parkinson added, nodding toward Zabini.

“Has it always been that way?”

“Not really,” she shook her head. “He’s always had fixations, things that puzzled him or interested him—you for example—but for the past few years it’s gotten worse.”

“Wait, what do you mean me?”

Zabini scoffed. “You’ve always been a fixation for him since the moment you turned down his friendship. Oh, I think it stemmed from hate, but it was a fixation nonetheless.”

Harry thought back to the first journal entry. Malfoy had mentioned fixations, that he moved from one to another quickly. Had Harry really been a fixation for him? He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

“Now his fixations change daily and it’s a lot to keep up with,” Parkinson shrugged. “He contacts us when he wants to, and it’s always been enough.”

“If he was going to run away, would he tell you?”

Zabini’s stance became hostile. “He did _not _run away. If you’re going to be as lazy as the Aurors, then you can leave.”

Harry raised his hands placatingly. “I’m not implying he did. I have to cover all my bases, and considering the stance the Aurors have, I need to rule it out.”

When they said nothing, he pressed again. “Would he tell you?”

“I don’t know,” Parkinson whispered, and the admission seemed to sadden her. “If it was another fixation of his, I think he’d tell us after the fact. But if it was just because he wanted to, then he’d mention it first.”

Well, that certainly didn’t rule out running away. Harry wasn’t sure how strong Malfoy’s fixations were, but it was obvious that the possibility of him leaving of his own volition was a strong contender.

“What do you think happened to him?”

Parkinson looked up, eyes watery and hands wringing in her lap. “Something bad. I can feel it.”

Harry couldn’t work off feelings, but he’d take it into consideration. “Narcissa said that Goyle was the closest to him, is that true?”

“Yeah,” Zabini smiled for real this time. “They’ve always had an odd friendship. Never could find Draco without Greg, and Vincent when he was alive.”

Strange. From what he could remember, their friendship hadn’t seemed close at all. More like Malfoy ordered them around and that was about it.

“Thank you,” he said before standing up. “If I have any more questions, I’ll get in touch.” 

The conversation opened up more questions than answered any, but it did broaden the mystery of it all. It was too early to tell what happened to Malfoy. Part of Harry hoped he _had _run away, that would mean he was alive.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered what happened to Malfoy. And would he ever find out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Back for the weekly update. Not going to lie, I'm kind of proud I've been able to keep the schedule. Sure, it's only the third chapter but still! I don't know if y'all have noticed, but Draco's journal entries are my version of a line break/scene change. It's a way for me to show you his mindset without making each letter a big deal or scene. Plus the format to me was pretty cool. I liked the idea of that. 
> 
> Speaking of his journal, are y'all liking it? He's sort of lost but trying anyway. The last journal of his really showed his character to me and I wouldn't say I had fun writing it, but I had a sense of ease. Lmao that probably makes no sense. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed the update. Let me know any thoughts and I'll see you next week!
> 
> -XxTheDarkLordxX


	4. Strength and Cowardice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm two days late with the update! Sorry about that. Thursday I felt super weird and had to go to bed early. Yesterday was similar as well. But I feel fine today and was able to finish this off! I hope you like it!

** _Thursday, _ **

_I read a book today about connections. It covered all kinds, even human ones, and it got me thinking. Do I have unknown connections? I know I am connected to my friends and family, but what about others? A connection isn’t always positive. I wonder about all the unintended connections I might have. _

_If so, they are the unlucky ones. _

_Humans by nature are sociable creatures. Connections are made effortlessly all the time, even if it’s acquaintances or a familiar face at a shop. I’ve always had trouble making connections, more so now than as a child. I don’t want to leave my flat let alone talk to anyone I don’t know. If humans are supposed to connect with others, why is it I can’t do it?_

_Am I not normal? _

_My mind healer said it stems from anxiety, but I don’t know what I would be anxious over. Is it other people? Or just me not wanting to leave the safety of my own house? Because despite the unease of leaving, my flat is a safe space—the only one I know. _

_I can’t control what people think of me or the preconceived notions that they might have. Some people will never like me, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be liked; I don’t want it. I just wish when I went somewhere, they’d see me for me. However, I can’t blame them. What else are they supposed to see if I only emulate what they’ve always known?_

_The more I research, the more I realize that I’m not owed that perception. I can be sorry, I can be knowledgeable, I can be reformed, and I can change, but that will never mean I am owed that acknowledgement. There will be those that will never forgive, and I can’t be upset at that. That’s their prerogative, their right, and if I harmed them, then it’s never up to me for how they feel. _

_No one has to accept an apology. _

_If my interest in changing is only because of what other people think, then that’s not changing at all. That’s just wanting acceptance. I have to want to change for me, because it’s right, because the alternative is not someone I want to be. _

_So even if the whole world is blind to me changing, I have to keep going. I have to keep trying regardless of what others see. My path might be visible to only me, but it’s one I am paving myself. That’s the important part. _

_However unwanted the negative connections I might have to other people are, they exist for a reason. I don’t think they can be severed, but a few might change. I might be able to make a fraction of them less negative. Righting wrongs sounds like the wrong descriptor. I can’t right those wrongs, there is no making right of things I have done. The only thing I can do is change and wait. _

_Time is both a judgment and salvation. I have all the time in the world to change, but time is what others will notice first. A double-edged sword, one where I take all the cuts. _

_I don’t ever think I’ll like the unwanted connections, but in a way, I am grateful for them. It’s a lesson that I have to go through, I just feel sorry for those on the other end. It shouldn’t have been something they had to go through. _

_I still am not sure how well I am changing, or if I am at all, but I’m still trying. I’m still here. _

_I just hope it’s enough. _

** _-Draco _ **

* * *

Sitting across from Goyle in a respectably sized flat was an experience he never thought he’d have.

“I’ve been told you are the closest to Malfoy.”

Goyle had a few biscuits on a plate but he hadn’t moved to eat them, so Harry didn’t eat his either. Goyle hadn’t said much, but he had allowed him entry, that was something.

“Yeah.”

Clearly, Goyle wasn’t much of a talker, but that had always been the case—at least from what Harry could remember.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

There was a shuddering breath before he looked up. The sadness in his eyes was piercing and Harry’s heart went out to him.

“Draco is my best friend; I know I am his too.”

“Did you talk often?”

“Everyday.”

Harry’s brows arched as he wrote that down. “Really? I talked to Parkinson and Zabini and there was often long periods of time between Malfoy contacting them.”

“They don’t know Draco like I do.”

He had hoped Goyle would continue, but one sentence answers were becoming the norm. “What was your friendship like?”

Confusion marred Goyle’s face as his lips pursed. “Normal?”

Harry smiled softly. “What did you guys usually do? Or talk about?”

“Sometimes, when Draco wanted me over, we would read together.”

That had Harry pausing. From what he understood from the journal was that reading was Malfoy’s haven. It was something that calmed him. Letting Goyle there was what really showed their type of friendship.

“Anything in particular?”

Goyle shrugged one shoulder. “I like to read his cooking books, and I’d try a few of the recipes out.”

“What about him? Anything he liked to read about?”

There was a brief smile on Goyle’s face before it vanished. “Draco reads everything.”

“Were you at his place often?”

“No,” Goyle frowned. “Draco likes to be alone, sometimes I don’t see him for a while, but we always talk by floo.”

“What do you talk about when he floos?”

Goyle’s head tilted to the side as he stared at something behind Harry, lost in thought. “A lot of things. He likes to floo me and tell me about a book he finished, that happens a lot during the day.”

That was kind of endearing, Harry thought. He imagined Malfoy read a lot of books in one day. Did he floo Goyle after each one?

“I miss him,” Goyle’s voice cracked and Harry almost wanted to comfort him. “I’m not used to the silence.”

“The Aurors think he ran away, if he had, would he have told you?”

“Yes.” A clenched fist accompanied the statement. “If Draco had wanted to leave, he would have told me, and I would have gone with him.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Goyle whispered. “But if someone hurt him, they’ll answer to _me_.”

“Whoa,” Harry held up a hand. “Slow down. No one is going to hurt anyone else, okay?”

There wasn’t an answer and he surmised that Goyle didn’t particularly care what he had to say.

“I just—” Goyle looked away, saying nothing else.

“I get it,” Harry said.

“No you don’t,” argued Goyle. “Draco is the closest person to me, the only real friend I had outside of Vincent. I went from talking to him every day to nothing. I haven’t heard his voice in over six months. I feel like I lost him, and I can’t lose him too. _I can’t._”

“I can’t promise you that I’ll find him,” Harry began, voice a little hoarse. “But I can promise you that I’ll find answers. I’ll find out what happened to him.”

Goyle didn’t say anything for a while, and the silence was a bit unnerving. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with the gratitude. Finding Malfoy was his job, but it wasn’t something that required a ‘thank you’.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry had hesitated asking, but his curiosity was too strong. “In school, you didn’t seem that close to him.”

“What do you mean?” Goyle’s expression wasn’t just confused, it was almost offended.

“You were with him a lot, but it seemed like he just ordered you around. Not really the best friendship.”

Goyle’s fists clenched. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t know either of us, so don’t assume anything.”

Before Harry could apologize, Goyle continued.

“Growing up, I always followed orders. The structure was something that was instilled into me by my family. My father was pretty strict, nothing on Lucius but he was still hard to please. Draco used to order me around, and in the beginning, I didn’t like it, it took a long time before I realized that friends don’t really demand you do things—it made me uneasy. I asked him about it one time after Vincent and him fought.”

Harry leaned forward as his curiosity got the better of him. The only fight he had seen between the three of them was right before the Room of Requirement went ablaze.

“What did he say?”

There was a wistful smile on Goyle’s face. “He told me that the only orders he gave were ones he knew that I’d be able to do easily. I couldn’t please my father, couldn’t do what he wanted, but I could do what Draco asked. It gave me the structure that I needed, the structure I had always wanted to please my father.”

“What if you didn’t want to do it?”

“Then I didn’t,” Goyle shrugged. “No one wants to be ordered around constantly. If there was something I didn’t agree with, he’d change it to something he knew I _wanted _to do. Whether it was playing chess, eating sweets or practicing Quidditch.”

“Does he still give you orders?” It was weird to Harry; he wasn’t sure he fully understood either.

“Sort of,” Goyle laughed. “He’ll tell me to eat, to drink water, to go to sleep. His orders now are always about my health.”

That was kind of sweet. Harry looked down at his notes as he tried to wrap his mind around the mystery that made up Malfoy.

“Are there any more questions?”

Harry startled a bit. “Yes. Do you know of anything in Malfoy’s flat that might have his magic in it? Or magical traces? The Aurors were pretty meticulous and I’m worried I won’t have something to track.”

“Uh,” Goyle began with a wrinkled forehead and furrowed brows. “Draco doesn’t use magic that often. He might summon a book, but that’s it. Rarely leaves his house so he doesn’t apparate or floo often.”

What? Harry’s shoulders slumped and he wanted to groan. If the bloody Aurors hadn’t dismantled the wards, he wouldn’t need to look for traces elsewhere.

Goyle stood up, nearly knocking over the biscuits. “I’ll be right back, wait here.”

“Okay…”

Harry looked around the room for something to do as Goyle took longer than he thought he would. There were framed photos around the room and all of them included Malfoy. Some were just Goyle and Malfoy, others had Zabini and Parkinson too.

One photo, in particular, caught his attention. Harry moved toward it to get a better look. Malfoy had been asleep, head resting on his journal, ink smeared on his face from a quill held upside down.

“I took that.”

Goyle’s voice startled him but not enough to take his eyes away from the photo. It was interesting to see Malfoy so peaceful, not really a descriptor he’d have ever used for him.

“Draco had invited me over but when I got there he was conked out. He doesn’t get enough sleep, so I let him be. He would not appreciate the picture being kept on the wall, but it’s not like he’s ever here to see it.”

“Devious,” Harry mumbled before turning around to face Goyle. There was something spherical in his hands and it piqued Harry’s interest. “What’s that?”

Only silence and sadness greeted him causing Harry to take a step forward.

“I’ve always worried about Draco, more so in the past couple years than before. I wanted to see him more often to make sure he was fine, but he really doesn’t like leaving the flat. So he made this.”

Impatience manifested in an exasperated gesture, urging Goyle to continue.

“It’s a mood globe.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

Goyle rolled his eyes as he held out his hand, palm upward and the globe on display. There was white smoke swirling inside, it was beautiful in a way.

“It’s linked to Draco’s emotions. It took a long time for me to be able to figure out the different colours. If it’s pink, he’s having a bad day; that means I wait for him to approach me. If it’s grey, he’s restless. If it’s lilac, he’s happy—that one is rare to see. If it’s yellow, he’s angry; another time I wait for him to talk to me. If it’s red, he’s lonely; I go to him first on those days.”

That was really sweet. The weight of the mood globe was heavy when he held out his hand and grabbed hold of it.

“What’s the white mean?”

“I don’t know.” There was a troubled look on Goyle’s face, one Harry didn’t like. 

“It’s not a colour I’ve ever seen in the globe before. I think if he were gone—” Goyle choked on the word, eyes closed, and fists clenched. “I think it would be empty. This means something, I know it does.”

“What do you think it means?” Harry wasn’t familiar with this kind of magic. Typically, if a caster died, then all spells they performed that were active would die with them. If the globe was similar, then it would change the direction of his investigation.

“That he’s alive.” The breathy whisper filled with emotion tugged at his heart.

“Thank you,” Harry said, placing extra care with how he held the globe. “This will help me a lot.”

Walking out of Goyle’s flat was bittersweet. His questions had been answered, more had arisen, but he also felt like the pieces to the puzzle that made up Malfoy was becoming a lot less blurry.

He wasn’t looking forward to the next stop, really wanted to procrastinate it but one thing Harry wasn’t, was a coward.

It was time to talk to the Aurors.

* * *

** _Wednesday, _ **

_Unfortunately, I had to leave my flat today. Greg had a prior engagement and I ran out of edible things to eat. In some ways, it was as bad as I thought it would be. Whenever I’m near crowds, I feel as if I’m being stared at. I’m not as self-centred as some might think, I know that they aren’t all staring but my mind doesn’t rationalize that in the moment. _

_Panic comes with their stares and I clam up each time. I start to wonder what it is that they are seeing when they look at me. Can they tell that I’m uncomfortable? Can they tell that I’m nervous? Is it my clothes? Maybe my face? Can they tell that I don’t want a fight, that I just want to be left alone? Or do they only see a Death Eater?_

_Sometimes, whispers accompany the stares and that’s the worst. I don’t know why I care that they talk but I do. It’s not as if they matter, I know that. So why can’t I let it go? Why does it bother me so much?_

_I already know what my mind healer would say. She’d tell me it was anxiety. But I still don’t know what I would be anxious over. It’s just leaving the house, surely anxiety can’t affect me that much, right? _

_The cashier was nice, the only saving grace for the trip. I could hear the people waiting in line talk about me, and I know the cashier heard it too. I’m not sure if they knew that their mocking carried over the noise of the store or just didn’t care. My appearance, my surname, my past, my family; that’s what they had a problem with. _

_I’ve said worse things to other people. I know that part of it has to be karma. I can’t expect to be treated with a respect that I never gave others. But Merlin, that sucked. I’m not stupid, I know I’ve hurt other people and it shouldn’t take being on the other end to understand the pain. _

_What does that say about me?_

_I couldn’t even handle half the things I’ve done to others. I’m weak. Underneath it all, I know as a person I don’t deserve it. But as someone who did horrible things, I can’t help but think that maybe I do. Is that self-deprecating? Or perhaps just self-awareness?_

_I wish I had stayed in; I wish Greg could have gone with me. Just his bulky shoulders and gruff demeanour would have kept them quiet. Is it wrong to have him fight my battles? Are other people opinion’s even a battle? Letting their words have such significance to my mood gives them power. A power that I’m not willing to succeed. _

_How do I get that power back? Will it be automatic the more I learn about myself? Am I supposed to struggle with that too? Fuck. Being good is hard. How do other people do it? I shouldn’t have to work at being good, right? Doesn’t that prove that this is a lost cause?_

_ I don’t know the answer, and that just burns. I’m not used to not understanding things. Books help, they teach me more than I ever thought possible. But there’s no book for this. There’s no book for being a good person. _

_Struggling. I’m struggling so much, and I don’t know who to go to for advice. I love my friends, and while Greg may be the best person I know, he’s not good—not in the way I need. None of my friends are good. My family is so far the opposite that it’s laughable to attempt asking. _

_If everyone around me is bad, what hope do I have of changing anything? _

** _In Tolerance and Acceptance: A Lesson for Humanity_ ** _, it said that nature versus nurture can hold a significance in upbringing. I understand that my parents’ beliefs predisposed me to bigotry. I let their thoughts influence me well before I understood how to think on my own. That was an obstacle that I never got over. Instead of branching out, I chose their mould. _

_I have to break the mould and it’s not easy. My research has shown that I’m going to struggle, and it might even be a daily one. Unlearning bigotry is not or will ever be an easy fix. It’s something I have to work at every day. _

_I wish that wasn’t needed. I wish I could wake up and not have to recondition myself. I wish I could see a Muggle or Muggleborn, hell even Magical Creatures and not instantly think of a dozen insults. They sit there on my tongue and withholding them shouldn’t be as much of a struggle as it is. _

_The book also said that while the first thought is important, it’s the final one that matters. Despite failing right out the gate each time, I do recognize that my thoughts are wrong and then I take them back. _

_Taking them back matters. Recognizing that is an improvement and I know it will get easier. I wish it wasn’t necessary, but it’s useless to wish for things that can’t be fixed. I can’t fix my past, I can’t fix my family, I can’t fix the way others see me. _

_But I can fix my own beliefs. I can fix my behaviours and I can fix how I look at others. There will be a time when instead of insults that sit on my tongue, it will be compliments. There will be a time when I can be accepting of them and then hopefully myself. _

_I’m sure it will still be a struggle, even then. Bigotry as deeply rooted as mine will always have to be consciously worked at. And that’s okay, I’m prepared for it. Prepared for the long road ahead. I just wish it wasn’t a lonely path. _

_I wish… _

** _—Draco_ **

* * *

Standing in the Atrium of the Ministry filled him with unease, as it did every time. That should have been the first indicator that life as an Auror was a mistake. As he handed his wand to security, memories of when he had done the same with Ron on their first day out of training. They had been young, excited and blind to _so _much.

It was hard to fathom a time when he was that naive.

The path to the lift was filled with stares and he knew he’d make the cover of the Daily Prophet. He always did. The longer he remained in the Ministry, the longer his unease grew. Merlin, Harry hated the place.

Harry was an expert in ignoring people, and now was no exception. He sidestepped raised hands, brushed past greetings, ignored the stares and sneered at the glares. His reputation at the Ministry had tanked after his… explosive exit. Truly his shining moment.

With a deep breath, Harry knocked on the door that led to the MLE department despite wanting to turn around and not come back.

The first thing he noticed when the door opened was the glares, oh boy were there glares.

“Excuse me,” Harry said when his path was blocked by a former coworker. When there was no movement, he pushed his way through, ignoring the threatening stances and cursed threats.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice behind him had his hands clenching. Harry had hoped his previous Auror partner would have been on an assignment.

“Coil.”

“Potter.”

“Is the Chief in? I need to ask Gosling some questions.” He didn’t bother turning around. Just seeing Coil was bad for his health.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The sneer in Coil’s voice held so much hatred that Harry would have welcomed one of Malfoy’s from their youth. At least that was just pettiness.

“Then your comprehension has gotten better. Miracle, that is.”

The sound of rustling was loud over the unnatural silence of the room before a wand was pulled out.

“You want to say that again?”

Harry turned around, face blank and eyes cold. Coil’s shoulders were broad, and he was taller than Harry by several inches but the strength of his arms was a pretence, for all he was filled with was cowardice.

“Go ahead,” Harry whispered. “Hex me and see how far that gets you.”

“There’s a dozen of us here,” Coil said, tone haughty. “Our recounting will hold a hell of a lot more weight than yours.”

“Then do it.” Harry raised his hands when all he got were glares. “If you’re so damn confident, then do it, _curse me_.”

When Coil did nothing, Harry crossed his arms. “What’s stopping you? It can’t be that I’m unarmed. That never stopped you before.”

Narrowed eyes and a raised hand was stopped by a familiar shout.

“Oi! Just what the hell is going on here?”

Harry refused to turn his back on Coil, not when a wand was pointed at him. He waited for Ron to push his way through the circle of onlookers.

“Coil, wands aren’t to be withdrawn in the department, you know that.”

There was a sternness to Ron’s voice that hadn’t been there the last time they saw each other. It was commanding.

“He started it.”

Harry snorted. Bullshit. “What are you, five? I keep waiting for you to grow the fuck up.”

Coil took a step forward, hand gripping the wand tighter and all it did was make Harry open his arms. He knew damn well Coil didn’t have the guts to curse him in a room full of people—no matter how loud the bravado was.

“Wand away, _now,” _Ron demanded with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw.

Harry was surprised when Coil listened. The last time he had been in the office Coil had seniority.

“Harry, with me.”

The commanding tone was impressive, and Harry was too intrigued to ignore it. He let Ron pull him into the Gosling’s office before the door was slammed shut.

“What were you thinking coming here?” Ron threw his hands in the air before he sat down behind the desk. Gosling would not appreciate that.

“I needed to ask Gosling some questions,” Harry said, not looking at Ron but instead past him. “It’s for a case.”

“Gosling retired.”

Harry locked eyes with Ron. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.” Gosling was just as much of a piece of shit as Coil.

“Who replaced him?”

Ron arched a brow before gesturing around the office. “I did.”

_What?_

“How? When? Why?”

“He didn’t want me as his replacement,” Ron shrugged as he pulled out a bunch of folders. “But I had the best closure rate, the credentials and the test scores over anyone else.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to think. Part of him was proud of Ron, but the rest was disgusted. The Aurors were _horrible_, he’d seen firsthand just how bad. And now Ron was in charge? It didn’t sit well with him.

“I know what you think of me, but I want you to know I’m trying.”

Harry’s fists clenched as he looked away. “I don’t understand. How could you stay? You _saw _what they did! You saw what they were doing to innocent people! You saw that they did to _me_.”

“I know.” Ron wouldn’t look at him, which only angered Harry.

The only reason he didn’t walk out was because of Malfoy. He _needed _answers.

“After you resigned, I went to Internal Affairs.”

Harry looked up; forehead wrinkled as his heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“We had that fight, and I didn’t have any answers. You had asked me why I stayed, and I didn’t know. I think I wanted to succeed at _something. _I didn’t have a backup plan. I’m not like you, Harry. I didn’t have the money to leave my job and hope for something else. I thought I could handle it.”

“So why go to I.A?”

“Because I couldn’t handle it.” When Ron looked up there was a sadness in his eyes, something Harry hadn’t seen since the battle of Hogwarts.

“You were right. This whole department is fucked up. I thought about leaving, Hermione and I had started a savings—we would have struggled but it could have been enough.”

“But?”

“But Aurors are _supposed _to protect people, they are _supposed _to be the ones the public goes to in need. If I left, I knew there wouldn’t be anyone willing to fight to keep it that way.”

“One person against a dozen Aurors. Those are horrible odds. Why fight a lost cause? Who does that?”

“You do,” Ron whispered, eyes glassy. “You fight even knowing you might not win.”

“Ron—” Harry’s eyes closed, and he sunk down in the nearest chair.

“I couldn’t leave, Harry,” Ron said. “Not if even one person could be helped. If I can save one person from the rest of them, then that’s _worth _it.”

That was an argument Harry had known. He had told himself that over and over, but it wasn’t enough. He had been so miserable trying to stay. If he had stayed, Harry _knew _it would have left him a different person, one that would have left him unable to look at his own reflection. 

“So I went to I.A,” Ron took a deep breath. “I told them_ everything_. They asked me to stay, to be their go-between. So I did.”

“Has it helped?”

Ron let out a hollow laugh. “It’s a slow process. Me being the chief was an unexpected help though. They are getting closer to making a case. There are so many of them under investigation, it’ll take a while.”

Harry stood up, unable to remain still. His mind was racing, and his emotions were torn. Ron staying had hurt more than he had ever imagined. But going to I.A? That meant a lot.

Ron’s face fell but he squared his shoulders and sat up straighter. “I understand why you left, I do, but I have to stay. I need to see this through. I’m making a difference, I know I am. If I.A can make a case against them, then I can start over. I can bring in new Aurors and train them right. I can do this Harry. I _know _can.”

“Okay,” he said before walking around the desk and pulling Ron into a hug. “There are parts I don’t agree with, but I get it. Doing what feels right to _you _is the most important.”

Ron returned the hug with a strength that hurt. “I’ve always cared what you think, Harry. When you left, it was hard. I let you down and that sucked.”

He had let him down. Harry had been disappointed but mostly just hurt. Ron was the most important person in his life, and when he stayed, it wrecked Harry.

“I’m trying to make a difference,” Ron continued, voice just as tight as his arms. “I want to fix us, but I also need to fix this department.”

“If anyone can do it, it’ll be you,” Harry whispered.

Ron shook his head. “You could have done it so much better. Perhaps even quicker.”

“No. This wasn’t my fight. I chose myself, Ron. I needed to put myself first for once. But you? You put yourself last for other people. This fight is yours, not mine.”

“I had a good teacher.”

Harry’s eyes stung as they continued to stand there, arms wrapped around each other. Despite the hurt and the years of bitterness, he was proud of Ron—so proud.

“I missed you,” Harry admitted when he stepped back. “There have been so many times something happened, and my first thought was that I had to tell you about it.”

That had been the hardest part. Losing Ron had hurt more than any breakup he’d ever had. No one ever talks about the pain of losing a friend. How losing a best friend could crush him in unexpected ways.

“You can tell me now,” Ron said as he wiped Harry’s eyes. “You can tell me anything.”

Harry just wanted to pull Ron into another hug. So he did.

“I will. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Harry said before he forced himself to sit back down. “But that can wait until later.”

“Right,” Ron cleared his throat. “You said you had questions?”

“I’m working on a missing person’s case. One the Aurors ‘didn’t have the man-hours for’.”

Ron winced at his air quotes. “Who is it? I can pull open the case notes and see what we have.”

“Draco Malfoy.”

The silence that followed was a tad bit amusing. He hadn’t seen Ron that flabbergasted in a long time.

“What? You’ve been hired to find him?”

“Mhm,” Harry’s hands moved outward, palms up. “Lucius came to me.”

“Lucius? _Lucius Malfoy?_”

“The one and only.” He grinned at the still shocked face. “He was told that you guys wouldn’t help him.”

“Coil was the Auror on Malfoy’s case.”

Harry slammed his hand on the arm of the chair. Of course he was.

“Said that there was evidence that Malfoy had run away.”

“What evidence?” Harry asked. “I’ve talked to his friends and family and I have reason to believe he did _not _run away.”

There was rustling as Ron opened several file cabinets. “He had talked to someone that said—no that’s not it. They had said something, let me find it.”

More rustling, a few curse words and a loud, “Ha! Found it.”

Ron leafed through the folder, eyes moving far too fast. “Right here. Coil talked to his Mind Healer and she said Malfoy had told her that he wanted to leave.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he went over Coil’s notes. “That doesn’t make sense.” From what he understood from Malfoy’s journals, his Mind Healer wasn’t that good. Would Malfoy have really told her that?

“Was her contact information in there?”

“Harry.”

No, he shook his head. Harry knew that tone. “Ron, I need it. I don’t buy any of this.”

“Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one.”

“I _have_ to find him,” Harry stressed.

“Why are you so close to this?”

The implications weren’t appreciated. “Because I think something happened to him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Harry refused to look up from the folder. Didn’t want to see Ron’s expression.

“I found a journal of his.”

“Harry.”

“_I know. _I’m not supposed to let my emotions get to me on a case. But you don’t understand. Malfoy—he’s—I just—” His hands clenched, and the folder crinkled.

“You don’t usually make mistakes like this.”

“Let me make this one,” Harry said, eyes briefly meeting Ron’s. “You’d understand if you had read what I have. Malfoy is a very complicated and complex person. One that I believe something bad happened to. I promised Lucius I’d find answers and I intend to.”

Ron held the gaze before he took a deep breath. “Last page. Her information is there, but you didn’t get it from me.”

“Thank you.” Harry stood to leave; the Mind Healer’s information now memorized.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Ron said as Harry’s hand paused on the knob.

He didn’t, not even remotely. “I’ll manage.”

After all, he always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this one got to me a little bit. Was a tad bit emotional near the end lmao. It's weird understanding both sides of Harry and Ron's situation. Like I can't fault either of them, personally. But it's a complicated mess, one that I don't think there are clear answers for anyway. 
> 
> I do hope you liked this update! We got to see a little bit more of Draco through the journals and Harry is right. Draco definitely is complex. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! I'll see you next week! (hopefully on time)
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


	5. Frustration's Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Sorry about that. Right after I wrote for Fanfair, I then had to write for Erised. Now that the latter has been turned in, I can get back to this story. I have no more deadlines, no other fests. So my attention should be able to go back to weekly updates for this story! I have missed writing for this world a lot. Hope you like it!

**Friday, **

_Today I decided to shop in a Muggle neighbourhood instead of going to Diagon Alley. Part of me wonders if it’s masochism. I don’t think I’m ready for that, but at the same time I can’t gauge my progress if I remain afraid to try. I suppose it could be cowardice too. After the last time, I really didn’t want to shop where I was recognizable. That’s something I’ll have to get over, I can’t hide forever, no matter how much I wish I could. _

_I was tense the entire trip. My heart raced and it never settled, I was on edge and just waiting for something to go wrong. Maybe it was my own preconceived notions of the Muggle world. I was prepared for it to be a miserable experience, and in some ways it was. However, it didn’t leave me feeling bad about myself—something I’m not used to. _

_Muggles wear weird stuff. During the Quidditch World Cup, I had seen a barrage of horrendous clothes, but I had assumed it was wizards not knowing what to do with Muggle clothing. I’ve always thought that Muggles were too alike, they conformed to each other and there was a lack of individuality. But as I walked the streets of Muggle London, I realized how wrong my assumptions were. _

_Wizard robes and cloaks are very similar in design. Sometimes the only difference is the colours or the price of the material. In terms of conformity, that descriptor would lie with us. Muggles, on the other hand, are so drastically different that I couldn’t help but be fascinated. The clothing alone was distinct enough to leave a lasting impression. While some of it was quite ugly, there was a lot that I rather liked. _

_At times I’m not sure where my opinions remain opinions or where the prejudice starts. Is it inherently prejudiced to not like Muggle aspects? Or can I objectively dislike some things? I’m so blind to the depths of my own prejudice that I’m not sure where the line is or if I have crossed it. There were several times when I felt disgusted by some people and I can’t tell why that is. Was it because they were a Muggle? Was it their clothing or attitude? I think I’m second-guessing myself and it’s so frustrating. _

_Every time I found something I didn’t like about a Muggle I tried to then find something I did like. Even the balance some. That was difficult. The compliments didn’t come easy and I know that’s my upbringing. That, I already know is the prejudice that’s always been inside me. To offset that, I took the tiny sliver of bravery that hadn’t been quashed and told a stranger in a bookshop that I liked his scarf. It had been the only thing I liked about his outfit. _

_The reaction wasn’t what I expected. He told me he wasn’t gay and then quickly left the store as if I had wronged him. Do Muggles equate compliments with flirting? I definitely was not interested in him that way. His departure had caused a scene and I was the centre of it all. Exactly what I didn’t want. I hate being stared at. I hate the judgmental looks, the whispers that always happen. Muggles and wizards are alike in that aspect. _

_Perhaps humanity in general sucks. _

_I may not have been interested in that Muggle but the people in the store were keen enough to know of my sexual orientation—something I’ve never been ridiculed or ostracized for. What I never realized was that Muggles themselves can be prejudiced. I’ve spent so many months trying to unlearn my own that it never crossed my mind that they too had bigotry. It was a disappointing discovery. Here I am trying to change and see Muggles in a positive way, only for them to judge me for things out of my control. _

_It’s hypocritical to be offended when I have judged others for things out of their control. Blood status, lack of magic, parents, etcetera. But knowing that didn’t stop the sting of hurt. They don’t know me but judged anyway. _

_The more I stood there the more doubt filled me. Why am I trying so hard for those that would judge me? I was angry enough that in my head I slipped up. The thoughts that I had were the ones I’ve been trying to erase. One bad experience and it all came crashing down. I didn’t say anything to them, but I thought it. I undid months of work in one afternoon. _

_Part of me wants to give up. But the more I think about it the more I realize again how similar Muggles and wizards are. In wizard society, there are those like me that have always been prejudiced and then there are those like the Weasley's who are the complete opposite. It must be the same way with Muggles. I encountered the bad ones, but there has to be those who are the opposite. It would have been nice to come across the Muggle equivalent of the Weasley’s. But perhaps I was meant to learn this lesson. Perhaps I was supposed to face the bad to truly understand the good in Muggles. _

_If I give up on them, then I’m giving up on me. It would be me deluding myself into thinking that I can’t change. I know I can. While giving up is easier and the simpler route, I can’t back down now. I can’t. The hard path is the one I will walk down, it is the one I will struggle the most on, but it’s also the most rewarding one._

_I don’t think I have to start over, I think I just have to recognize where I went wrong and keep trying. All I can really do is try. I am sure I’ll mess up again, I’m sure I’ll think horrible things, but I know that I’ll always catch myself. I am the only one who can hold me accountable, and I’m going to._

_I discovered a lot of things today. Discovered the good and bad of Muggles, discovered similarities between them and us, but I also discovered part of myself. I thought the end result of all of this would lead me to self-discovery, but I realized that wasn’t the case. Self-discovery is the entire path I will walk down. I will learn new things each day, with each book and with each attempt. I am going to discover who I am along the way to becoming a better person. _

_Will I recognize myself at the end of all of this? I don’t think so. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what has to happen. I’m less confident than I was before I went out, but I am more knowledgeable than I was. A trade-off I can accept. Knowledge will only serve to help me; confidence is not a necessity. _

_I’ve always been confident, and in some cases too much. If losing confidence means gaining the knowledge and a means to bettering myself, then I will do without it. I need to humble myself and learn to be self-assured but not pretentious. _

_I’m a bit jumbled and my head is a mess, but I think my priorities are still on track. I learned a lot today, and I’m going to keep learning. _

_It’s all I can do. _

**—Draco**

* * *

When Luna opened the door and took a look at Harry standing there with his hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground, he wasn’t surprised at her long-suffering sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I said nothing?”

Luna crossed her arms and looked at something behind him. “No.”

Harry looked up, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He had thought about not coming, but Luna was his favourite person, the one that understood him the most.

“Do you think you could do a reading on me?”

Her hands fell limply by her sides. “Now I _know _something is wrong. You never want a reading.”

Harry shrugged, holding back on telling her that her readings were made up anyway.

Luna said nothing but she did hold out her hand, and the offer alone made him feel a lot better. When a hand was placed on hers, he let her guide him inside.

“What’s changed?”

“A lot,” Harry said as he sat down on the floor, chin on bent knees and arms wrapped tightly around his legs. “I’m so confused.”

“I knew you would be.”

He didn’t doubt that. “I just—nothing is going as I thought it would.”

Luna sat across from him before shuffling a deck he hadn’t seen her use before. “Like what?”

Harry tapped his fingers on the top of a knee as he thought about it. “Malfoy isn’t what I expected.”

“He never is.”

“What do you mean?” Harry’s forehead wrinkled and he tried to think if Luna had ever mentioned Malfoy before the case.

Luna made a noise as she flipped over a card. He had no idea what it was or what it signified. “Did you know that Malfoy can see Thestrals?”

“I imagine a lot of people who were in the war can.”

Luna shook her head, flipping over more cards. One of them made her lips purse. “No, it was during my fifth year and his sixth.”

Harry’s head tilted to his other knee. “I didn’t know that. He couldn’t see them in my fifth year. How do you know he can see them?”

“I liked to feed the Thestrals before dinner.”

That, Harry, knew. He smiled at the memory of the first time he had seen her do it. Luna had weirded him out a bit in the beginning, and sometimes still did.

“When I got to the clearing, he was sitting in front of one of them, crying.”

Harry’s head snapped up. That didn’t sound like Malfoy at all. The only time he had seen Malfoy cry was in the bathroom during sixth year.

“I told him the Thestrals don’t judge those who can see them. That despite seeing death, the Thestrals aren’t something to be upset over.”

“What did he say?”

Luna peered at him over a card, eyebrows arched. “It’s Malfoy, Harry. He insulted me; called me a vapid, eccentric lunatic.”

_That _sounded like the Malfoy he remembered.

“I wonder who he saw die,” Harry mumbled. Back then a lot of people went missing, but he couldn’t think of someone that Malfoy might have seen die.

“I imagine a lot of people,” Luna said, tone pointed in a way that wasn’t usual for her. “Voldemort lived with the Malfoy’s for a time, didn’t he?”

A chill went through Harry at the thought. Had a sixteen-year-old Malfoy been forced to watch Voldemort kill others? 

“What about him was unexpected?” Harry asked. “Was it because he was crying?”

“We both knew what was already on his arm,” Luna whispered before she picked up all the cards and shuffled them, starting over. “I expect a lot of people did.”

“You think he was crying about that?” Having second thoughts wasn’t a surprise. But it was hard to empathize when it was something Malfoy willingly chose.

“Someone so broken and gutted is not someone who was comfortable with their decisions,” Luna said with her nose wrinkled at whatever card she was looking at. “I think he was in too deep and wished that he couldn’t see the Thestrals.”

Harry had wished the same when he saw them for the first time. Seeing something as horrible as death shouldn’t have been a prerequisite to seeing a Thestral. All it did was make the animals hard to be around.

“When people talked about Malfoy after the war, they did so with contempt and anger. But all I could see was the teenager crying in the woods at the sight of a Thestral.”

“That doesn’t excuse his choices.”

“Of course not,” Luna chided with a frown. “But it shows how complicated he was and then life in general. He did bad things, but I think he knew that already. Self-awareness with enough guilt to feel something over it shows a dichotomy. Malfoy _is _unexpected, and I imagine he always has been.” 

Dichotomy. That was the perfect word for Malfoy. “I found a journal of his.”

“Harry.” There was a sadness in her tone, and he wasn’t sure why.

“I know invading his privacy is wrong, but if that journal has any answers, I needed to read it.”

“And did it?” Luna hummed. “Did it have any answers?”

“Yeah, to questions I never asked.” Harry was getting closer to finishing the journal and he wasn’t sure if he had found anything to help.

“Oh?”

“Malfoy fascinates me,” Harry admitted to both Luna and himself. “The way his mind works, from his disastrous flat to the lengths he goes to research things.”

There was no response, all he got was the sound of her turning over more cards.

“I used to wonder if Malfoy ever knew how much of a bully he was, wondered if he ever truly understood the things he’d say. But the more I read his journal; I realize he knows exactly what kind of person he was.” 

Harry pulled at a loose thread on his trousers. It reminded him of the case, a loose thread with nothing to link it to.

“And that person he was, he doesn’t like them. Malfoy confuses himself as much as he does me. He wants to change, wants to be a better person.”

“You don’t think he can?”

“No, that’s not it.” Harry bit his lip as he shook his head. “He tried so hard. I can tell by his written thoughts. I’ve never seen anyone think so much about their actions before. Malfoy truly wants to be a better person, and I know he can be.”

“Do you?” There was a look in Luna’s eyes, one he couldn’t decipher.

“He already is.”

There was so much inside the journal. Struggles, sorrow, apologies, empathy, sadness and much more. So much of Malfoy was in that journal and the depths to him surprised Harry.

“When I took the case, I thought it would be easy to remain objective. I’ve known _of_ Malfoy since I met him but I didn’t _know _him. I knew his sneers, insults, stupid smirk but I didn’t know his wants, fears or dreams. I knew of the things he showed but never what’s on the inside. There is so much to him and I don’t know how to remain objective anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

“What?” Harry looked up, jumping a little at the intensity in her eyes. “I can’t afford to lose bits of myself in the process of finding him. I have to remain objective.”

“It’s too late for that,” Luna said, eyes still locked on his. “We both know you are invested, and not just your mind, Harry.”

“What are you implying?”

“You want to find him, why?”

“It’s my—”

“Outside of that. If you weren’t a Private Investigator and Lucius came to you, would you have helped him?”

Harry’s nose scrunched up as he thought about it. Seeing Lucius in any kind of setting wasn’t his idea of a good time. But knowing how the Aurors are, there was no way he would have sent Lucius away. Whether it was his morals or just because it was the right thing to do.

“If you didn’t have that journal, would you be here right now on my floor?”

The journal was what kick-started all of it. Take that away, and what was left? Harry thought of the interviews. Thought of Goyle; how Malfoy would Floo him just to talk about books, or to make sure he was taking care of himself. Thought of Parkinson and Zabini; how fond they were of Malfoy’s eccentrics, how Malfoy could lose himself in fixations and forget about anything else. Thought of Narcissa and Lucius; how no matter what their relationship was with their son, they loved him.

“Yes,” Harry said, eyes closing. “I’d still be here.”

“Why?”

Harry shrugged half-heartedly, not really wanting to think too deeply. “Because he’s a mystery, because he’s trouble.”

“You’ve always liked mysteries,” Luna smiled softly. “Can’t help but attract trouble.”

There was nothing to say to that, they both knew it was true.

“Why are you really here?”

Harry clenched his hands along with his eyes. “I feel like I have to find him. Not just because I’m supposed to, not because of Lucius, not because it’s the right thing to do. But because _I _need to, and I don’t understand why.”

Luna’s eyes were still on him when he opened his own. It was unnerving in a way and it made him aware of how serious everything was.

“I don’t understand why I care.”

“That’s always been your weakness.”

Harry arched his brows. “Don’t you mean my strength?”

“Double-edged sword,” Luna said. “The way you care _is _a strength but when you care so deeply that it becomes a necessity, that’s when it’s a weakness.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes, you care at the expense of yourself. You worry about others until it’s too late to worry about yourself.”

Caring had always been part of him. Seeing those in need and ignoring it went against every fibre of his being.

“I can’t help it.”

“No,” Luna agreed with a sad smile. “I suppose you can’t.”

Harry blew a harsh breath as he extended his legs and leaned back, hands placed behind him. “I have to find him.”

“Just don’t lose yourself in the process.”

“I won’t.”

She didn’t believe him, Harry could tell, but that was alright—he wasn’t sure he did either.

* * *

**Tuesday,**

_I did something stupid today. I had to get some potion ingredients since mine had expired. These will too so I don’t know why I bother—haven’t brewed anything in years. Ended up going to an apothecary in Hogsmeade hoping the stares would be considerably less than Diagon Alley. Students were in classes and it was the middle of the day. _

_Getting things from the shop was fine, easy even. The cashier definitely recognized me, but they said nothing, for that I am grateful. The real problem was when I walked by the Three Broomsticks. I’ve never stepped foot inside, not after Rosmerta. I walked by, determined to ignore it as I always have but then I realized that if I do that, I’ll always be running away. _

_Always running from a guilty conscience and a cowardly heart. _

_Me, being stupid, decided to go in and talk to her. Maybe right some wrongs or at least give an apology. I could do that much. Learning to admit my faults has never been easy but I’ve come to realize in my research that having an abundance of pride will be my downfall every time. How can you change if your pride refuses to let you? I can’t want to change but also keep the comfort of deniability, that’s not how that works. _

_So I walked in there, head held high and ready to do something. I knew seeing Rosmerta would be tough, I knew that she might refuse to see me. Which happened, but what I didn’t expect was to run into Hannah Abbott. _

_Hufflepuffs tend to be kind even in the face of those they don’t like. Abbott was no exception. There was no hostility to her, just distrust—which I can understand. I froze in the doorway, unable to make myself enter. Some say she fought in the war, but I can’t remember much of that day. When I look at Abbott all I see is the teenager who was pulled out of class to be told their mother died at the hands of Death Eaters. _

_At the hands of my father. _

_There had been no witnesses, there had been nothing but a destroyed house and a Dark Mark in the sky. No one outside of the Dark Lord’s followers knew who led the raid, no one knew what had happened. _

_But I did. _

_My father told me it in passing. As if taking someone’s life was a normal conversation, something that didn’t merit anything more. At the time, I think he was proud. Maybe not proud of murder, but proud that the Dark Lord was pleased. Is there a distinction though? They both go hand in hand. _

_Logically I know that his crimes are not my own. His sins are not the ones I bear. But as I stood there, all I could feel was guilt. My father had a hand in her mother’s death. I had a hand in the war and that led to people dying. Maybe not at my hands but my actions were linked, my actions didn’t help anyone they only hindered them. _

_For a brief moment, as she stared at me, I felt like I was my father. _

_I don’t want to be him. I don’t want his legacy; I don’t want the things he’s done and I don’t want to see him every time I look in the mirror. I just want to be me, and I don’t even like who I am or who I see. _

_Rosmerta kicked me out, and while that wasn’t a surprise it hurt—the sting of failure. Instead of trying to make amends, all I did was freeze like the coward I’ve always been. How many others are there? How many more people am I going to have to face? Will I clam up then too? Will I be able to apologize or even try?_

_It’s all too much. My head hurts, my pride is dwindling, my guilt is rising and I’m a mess. A mess of my own doing, where the consequences have to be met. Only I don’t want to meet them. I wish my path to becoming a better person came with short cuts. I wish I could avoid the things that eat at me. I just want to change. _

_But I can’t do that with short cuts, can I? There’s no lesson to be had if I cheat. I’d just be pretending, a grand illusion. I’ve pretended my whole life. Pretended that I could get my parents’ verbal affection. Pretended that I was what the Malfoy family was supposed to be. Pretended that I was better than others. Pretended that I could do no wrong. Pretended that being a Death Eater was the right choice. _

_Pretended to be good. _

_I’m not though, am I? Not yet. I don’t want to pretend any longer. I want to be able to see myself and not see the cracks of a dying persona. I want to be me, just Draco. _

_But what does that define? Who am I? I can’t help but think of my mother’s words before I became a Death Eater. ‘Stand for something’ _

_What do I stand for? I don’t anymore, don’t know if I ever did. _

_I want to define myself; I want to learn who I am and what I stand for. Even if it’s one awkward encounter at a time, even if it’s being kicked out of establishments, even if it’s facing who my father was and still is. _

_I will find out just who Draco Malfoy is and I’m going to let that be enough. I’m enough and it’s about time I realized it. _

**—Draco**

* * *

Harry had been to his fair share of Mind Healers in his life, and even once to a Muggle therapist. He’d been inside many offices, but as he stood in the doorway of Mind Healer Hold’s office, he couldn’t help but be confused.

The walls were beige and bare, not a single design or wallpaper, there were no plants or knickknacks on the desk. The chair people were to sit in was small, one a child would fit in. The only thing that showed that the room was even used was a lone photo of a little girl waving as she jumped through leaves.

Harry knocked on the open door and watched Hold’s confusion melt into narrowed eyes. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him or was just a suspicious person in general.

“I’m sorry if my assistant let you in, but I have a client coming soon and I don’t take walk-ins.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m actually here to ask you a few questions. I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh,” Hold’s demeanour changed as she sat up and invited him in with a polite smile. “Is it about one of my clients?”

“Yes.”

A file cabinet next to her desk opened on its own before she began to leaf through folders. “Which patient?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Her hands stilled briefly before the file cabinet closed, the click loud in the now silence of the room.

“I can’t divulge information to you without a court order, I’m_ sure_ you know that.”

“I do, ma’am, but I’m not wanting to invade Malfoy’s privacy, I just want to go over some of the things you told the Aurors.”

Hold folded her hands underneath her chin as she regarded Harry carefully. “I told the Aurors all I could legally and ethically divulge. Anything outside of that you’ll need a court order from the Wizengamot.”

Mind Healers were a pain in the arse. He understood that confidentiality was important, but he wasn’t wanting detailed information on their sessions.

“In cases of a patient being incapacitated, you _can _share information.”

An arched brow was an indicator that he was not likely to get his way.

“Incapacitated as in unconscious or not of sound mind. Unless you are telling me that Mister Malfoy has been found unconscious, then I can’t help you.”

“But what about a waiver?” Harry asked, hoping a new tactic would help. “A lot of patients sign waivers in case of future emotional distress or a potential lawsuit.”

“I commend your commitment, but Mister Malfoy refused to sign a waiver.”

Fuck.

“What about conversations that don’t apply to client-patient confidentiality? Things that were discussed outside of the parameters of sessions.”

“Mister Potter—” Oh, so she did recognize him. “Mister Malfoy and I only ever talked in his sessions. If I did contact him, it was still regarding his treatment.”

Harry wanted to throw something. He knew she was doing her job, but if she could talk to Aurors, then why the hell couldn’t she talk to him?

“I just have one question,” Harry said, holding up his hands when it looked like she was going to deny that too. “You told the Aurors that you think he might have run away on his own.”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“Why? I have nothing to suggest he did.”

Hold sat up straighter as her eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure if he had offended her or not. “He told me so.”

“Pardon?”

Her fingers tapped against the desk repeatedly as she contemplated _something_. “I shouldn’t be humouring you at all, but it would be nice to put all of this to rest.”

Harry pulled out his notebook, ready to write whatever she had to say.

“Before Mister Malfoy disappeared, he had been increasingly unhappy. Mentioned that he wouldn’t mind taking a vacation.”

“Where does vacation and running away correlate?”

She huffed before sending him a look. “I recommended a vacation, he was always so stressed and cooped up in his flat. I told him that leaving the country might help some.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me that a vacation meant he’d have to come back. Said the only way he’d leave if it was a one-way trip.”

Harry’s brows merged as he closed the notebook. He could see why she thought Malfoy had run away, but everything inside him screamed the opposite. Whether it was his intuition or just stupidity. Something told him that Malfoy didn’t willingly leave.

“You don’t appear to believe me.” Her tone was clipped, and it reminded him why he hated talking to Healers of any kind.

“I believe you,” he said, one hand raised placatingly. “It’s just that it doesn’t match up to my investigation.”

“Oh?” Hold’s brows arched as she leaned forward. “The last the Aurors told me was that they closed the case, that they too thought he ran away.”

“Fuck the Aurors.”

The way her head jerked back in surprise was honestly amusing.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, not really meaning it. “The Aurors don’t do their job properly and that’s why I was called in.”

“And?”

“I’ve talked to his friends, his family and even read his journal.”

Hold’s head tilted to the side. “Journal?”

“Yeah,” he wasn’t sure why she seemed surprised. “He wrote that you had been the one to suggest it.”

“I did,” Hold nodded. “But he told me it was a stupid idea and he wasn’t going to do it.”

Harry snorted. That sounded like Malfoy alright.

“What did he write about?” There was interest in her tone, but he wasn’t feeling any generosity.

It was Harry’s turn to arch his brows. “I’d tell you but it’s part of an ongoing investigation. I can’t divulge confidential matters, I’m_ sure_ you know that.”

When she glared, he grinned before taking his leave.

“If I have any other questions, I’ll return.”

He was halfway down the hall when he heard her yell back, “Preferably with a court order.”

That wasn’t going to happen. He could always forge one, but the last time he had done that the Chief Wizengamot fined him before threatening a sanction should he do it again. With Ron now back into his life, maybe it would go a lot smoother.

Harry took one last look at the building before he apparated away. The more answers he got, the less he felt like any of it made sense. Everything in his gut said Malfoy was in danger, but everything factually implied that he ran away.

For the thousandth time since the investigation started, Harry wondered what happened to Draco Malfoy?

Would he ever find out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me wishes I could read this without knowing everything lol. I am so curious about what y'all are thinking. I can usually figure out a lot of movies/book plots but I wonder what I would be able to see if I was the reader. I had fun with this chapter. Luna is someone that is wise but vague most of the time. And while I still wanted to embody that, I also want her character to have more depth than I usually see for her. She's his best friend, and I love that. 
> 
> Every time I write a journal entry for Draco, I like him more. Shsk does that sound odd? He's very complex but I like that about him. His dichotomy is definitely something that pulls me in. 
> 
> I hope y'all liked this chapter! Let me know any thoughts and I'll see you soon!
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


	6. Emotional Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in one week, who am I?

**Wednesday,**

_I went back to the bookshop. I decided that it doesn’t matter if Muggles can also be prejudiced. That’s on them and I have to focus on me. I need to be better despite them. So, I gave it another shot. There weren’t many people, and I didn’t interact outside of the cashier, but it was nice. Quiet. I like the quiet. _

_It wasn’t until I was two hours deep into a new book on their reading couches that I realized that maybe bookshops are dangerous. I wanted to buy everything. There were so many books—despite having no magic in them—that I found fascinating. One of the employees tried to get me interested in some of the popular fiction books, but those aren’t for me. I don’t like fiction. I don’t like made-up worlds when the one I’m currently in has so much to offer. _

_Facts are comforting. I know where I stand in facts, because they aren’t wrong. There is no risk involved when dealing with something that is already true. Non-fiction is the only kind of genre I like. Learning something new is addicting, new facts and new truths keep the pages turning. _

_I found that Muggle books do the same for me. I read too much there, and then read too many books at home. Part of me would like to think that the thirty books I bought will tide me over, but it won’t. I know this, and the cashier will certainly learn the same. _

_So far, the book that interested me the most was about emotions and how that correlates to our health, whether it be mental or physical. Instinctively, I already knew what emotions can do to mental health, but I didn’t think that it played such an important role on my physical health. _

_Love. Something I’ve never had. At least not given to me. My parents may love me, but they never showed me that. I’m not sure I would be able to recognize love in any capacity. I think I love my friends, but can you truly love someone if you’ve never been loved yourself? _

_Is the absence of hate automatically love? _

_The book mentioned how chemicals and hormones inside of us are linked to love. New relationships can cause spikes of dopamine—a feel-good—but at the same time, it can cause drops in serotonin. I imagine nervousness and anxiety would play into that. It’s fascinating that love can cause you to feel good but also decrease serotonin. Almost a balance of sorts. _

_Is love a balance? _

_Love when matured can keep dopamine levels high. It also produces more oxytocin—a bonding hormone. Is that why I have trouble making connections? Because I don’t have love in me to make bonds with others? Or am I projecting my own worries?_

_I suppose all of this is when someone has a good relationship. If all of this can happen when happy, then what can love do to the body when it's toxic? What can bad love do? The book never talked about that. Why? Not what readers want to know? Shouldn’t facts come with all angles? I don’t like not knowing, I don’t like not understanding something. _

_If I were to fall in love, would it already be toxic? Am I toxic? How would love work with me? I’d like to think that I could love someone to the best of my abilities. I think after not having anyone to love for so long, that it might be easy to give it away. Surely, I have an abundance of love, right? But can they love me? That’s what I want to know. Can someone truly see the kind of person I am and love me anyway? _

_If I were to have had love when I was younger, I don’t think it would have ended well. I couldn’t take care of me, my mother or anything else. Love wouldn’t have just complicated things; it would have warped my perception of the emotion and everything else entirely. It would have been a disservice to whoever would have loved me. The person I was then is not who I am now. The person I am now is not the same person I will become in the future. If I were to ever be loved, I think I’d want it when I’m at my best. _

_Can love work that way? Can it be put on hold? _

_I suppose I am grateful that I was never loved before. Not only would I have not handled it well or with dignity, but I don’t think I could have returned the sentiment. Back then, positive emotions were a foreign concept. It was difficult finding anything positive when the wizarding world was crumbling under despair and terror. _

_But then I think of Dumbledore or even Potter. They foolishly believed in love so strongly. Is love strong? It’s strong enough to affect the body, but can it change other things? Was love truly what Potter used as his strength? I find it hard to fathom, but then again, I am ignorant when it comes to the magic of love. Perhaps I’d have to experience love to be able to see the merit of its strength. _

_Love sounds terrifying. Something that can affect the body so much, scares me. There is obviously power in love and I worry about what can happen if I give that power to someone who wants to see me suffer. Can I be vulnerable enough to let them have something as potent as love? _

_I’m not so sure. _

_Part of me wants love. I’m not sure if it’s to be loved or to give it. Is that a human wish? Love? The rest of me wants to stay far away from it. I’ve gone my whole life without it, so why start now? Why change what I’m used to? So much of me is already changing, can’t this be a constant? I’m not sure what to think. _

_I suppose it’s futile. There’s no one who would love me, and I’ve yet to love anyone. So what does it matter in the end? _

_Maybe love doesn’t matter. Maybe I am fine as is. Maybe I’ve always been fine. Maybe I always will be. _

_Maybe I don’t believe me. _

**—Draco**

* * *

Harry blew out a breath, eyes on the journal and his heart heavy. Part of him wanted to reread it, but this entry was very personal, and the guilt of reading it was hard to ignore. He placed his head on his hands and let his mind wander.

It had been a surprise to see his own name inked on the page, but he wished it had been in different circumstances. Despite what everyone assumed, he didn’t know the first thing about love. Oh he could feel it, give it even, but it never ended well.

He looked up from the journal and rolled his eyes at the sneer Painting-Malfoy gave him. “I know, you don’t want to see me. We’ve been over this every time I come here.”

A nose in the air was his response.

“It may look like I want to invade his privacy, but I promise you, I don’t.”

Painting-Malfoy narrowed his eyes. Clearly, he didn’t believe Harry.

“I understand why you don’t like it. Malfoy’s journal is intimate, the things he writes and his emotions on the pages aren’t meant for me. At times I am uncomfortable. Even if I had his permission, I would still be uncomfortable. Malfoy put so much of himself in here and I feel like I’m looking into his heart every time I read it.”

Painting-Malfoy’s arms lowered, and the anger turned to something more neutral before blending into confusion.

“I probably don’t make much sense, do I?” Harry asked, eyes going back to the journal. “I confuse myself every time I think of your counterpart.”

When he glanced up to see an arched brow, Harry felt a little exposed. It was odd talking to a painting of Malfoy when Malfoy himself was on his mind all the time.

“I’ve nearly read this whole thing.” The glare returned and Harry snorted. “At first, my heart ached a little at the things he’s gone through and the way he was raised. I myself was raised with no love. But what truly breaks my heart is how Malfoy doesn’t see that he’s a good person.”

Painting-Malfoy’s head jerked back, and he blinked rapidly at Harry.

Harry smiled sadly. Even the portrait was blind to Malfoy’s characteristics. “While I don’t like his choices or the people he chose to align with, I can’t ignore how much effort he’s put into changing. Bad people don’t try, they don’t look within, and they certainly don’t research how to be a better person.” 

Painting-Malfoy didn’t seem to believe him, and that wasn’t a surprise, not with the journal entries showing conflicted thoughts already.

“I think Malfoy still has a ways to go, but his progress is commendable. I’ve never seen someone try this hard to be good. I don’t think someone can try so hard and _not _end up a good person. Sometimes, I think that Malfoy still sees himself as he sees his peers. They were once the same, they were once just as much of a prat and a bigot as he was. But for some reason, Malfoy doesn’t give himself the credit of his current actions. He’s not his peers, he’s moved away from that and is already something else.”

The wrinkled brow and lost eyes Harry was given tugged at his heart. It was so easy talking to the portrait. Someone who couldn’t talk back, it was like a confidant in a way. If Malfoy was ever found, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell him any of this.

“He confuses me,” Harry whispered with a small shake of his head. “My memories of him are not good ones. I’ve never looked at Malfoy and thought he could change, that wasn’t a probability in my head. But the more I read, the more I question everything. Clearly, my perception has changed. I don’t just think he can be a good person; I _know _he can.”

Painting-Malfoy looked a bit disturbed, and Harry felt bad for him. He wondered what it was like to be a painting let alone know that the real version was missing.

“You don’t think so?”

At first, it looked like Painting-Malfoy was going to shake his head but then he lifted his hands in the air roughly as he shrugged.

“He already is.”

The look Harry got in return was hard to decipher. Was it sadness? Guilt? Disbelief? He wasn’t sure.

Harry looked down at the journal again before tracing a finger along the spine. “The last entry I read was about love.”

Painting-Malfoy glared, and it would never not amuse him.

“He mentioned my name,” Harry said, amusement rising at how uncomfortable the portrait looked. “I’m not an expert in the emotion. Dumbledore would say I got rid of Voldemort with love, but I honestly have always thought I got lucky. I have a lot of love in me, but I don’t think it was something I ever wielded, not in the way people think.”

The more he spoke, the more the painting became confused. Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he was shattering perceptions people had of him, or if he just didn’t understand in general.

“I was raised in a bad house,” Harry paused at the brief concern that flickered in Painting-Malfoy’s eyes. That was kind of nice. “I don’t want to get into specifics, maybe I can to the real Malfoy one day. But just know that they never loved me,_ ever_. Because of that, I grow attachments very quickly.”

That had been something his Mind Healers mentioned, as if he hadn’t already known. It was hard not to like people, it was hard to not want to care about others, regardless of how much he knew them.

“I have a hard time telling apart those who love me, and those who are just fond. The attachments I have confuse me. I convince myself that I’m in love when I’m really just happy to have that person in my life. Sometimes, I can’t distinguish love from just simple affection. It’s caused a lot of problems in my love life.”

His brows merged in frustration as his fingers continued to trail the journal. Love was complicated, and he didn’t fully understand it. Which probably would have angered Malfoy. Harry truly didn’t understand love any more than Malfoy did.

“I almost married Ginny.” He glared when Painting-Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I loved her, I did. But not in the ways she needed, and it definitely wasn’t what I needed.”

The portrait looked confused, and Harry snorted. “It doesn’t make much sense to me either. I was comfortable with her, enjoyed her company but when I thought of marrying her, it felt safe. It felt more like I was doing it because it was the familiar—a routine—something I got used to, something that never went deeper. I think Ginny was more than an attachment, and I certainly don’t regret any time I had with her, but I knew that if I went through with the wedding, I’d end up unhappy down the road, and wouldn’t have left. By then, the routine would have been too solid. I know I would have stayed and that wouldn’t have been fair to her or me.”

Harry could tell he didn’t understand, but perhaps that was because Malfoy had never loved someone.

“I thought I fell in love after the breakup,” Harry winced at the memory. “He was a good guy, for the most part. I had just started my business and he came in wanting me to help prove his sister was innocent of a crime the Aurors arrested her for. It definitely was something he should have gone to a lawyer for, but he was so pretty—your kind of pretty—so I took the case.”

When Painting-Malfoy arched his brows, Harry crossed his arms. “It’s not like you can talk to your counterpart anyway. There’s no shame and admitting I have eyes. We both know how fit Malfoy is.”

There was a dusting of pink on his cheeks and Harry grinned at the sight. He waved his hands back and forth quickly and Harry frowned trying to understand.

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

One hand kept moving down with a flick of a wrist just to repeat the gesture. “That’s not it?”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head.

“It’s something I said?” A nod had him thinking back. “Is it about Ginny?”

Another shake of a head, but this time it accompanied an eye roll.

“The guy? The one I thought I loved?”

Hands were thrown into the air as he nodded, as if to say ‘finally’. “You want to know who he is?”

The portrait’s shoulders slumped, hands coming to his hips as he shook his head. Harry wished he could talk, that would make things so much easier.

“You want to know why I thought I loved him?” When he got another shake of a head, Harry wanted to throttle him. If the interest wasn’t about the lack of love, or the man himself, what was left?

Harry sat up straighter when Painting-Malfoy pointed at him. “It’s because he’s a bloke?”

The nod he got in return had him leaning closer as his brows arched. “I am very much bisexual. I would have thought you knew; the fucking Daily Prophet wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

The flush returned, and Harry was fascinated. “Why do you care?”

Painting-Malfoy scrunched his nose before sneering.

“You cared enough to ask,” Harry pointed out. “Is it because I called you pretty?”

The portrait wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You are, you know.” That granted him the attention he wanted. Such pretty eyes looked into his own. Would the real Malfoy have the same shade? Had the painter managed to capture the exact colour?

“It’s kind of cute that you’re embarrassed.”

Painting-Malfoy flipped Harry the bird, eyes narrowing, and even contempt didn’t diminish how pretty they were.

“You think your counterpart would hex me if told him he was pretty?” There was a smirk on Painting-Malfoy’s face as he nodded, one Harry didn’t appreciate. “If he blushes as you do, it might be worth it.”

Harry was grateful the painting was silent because the way his mouth moved rapidly with hands clenched in a fist, it surely wasn’t well wishes. Maybe that was enough for the day.

When he paused by the portrait on his way out, he snorted at the harsh glare sent his way.

“Before I go, I just want to say to not give up. I hope your counterpart doesn’t give up on love. It’s something I think he deserves to have. To be loved and give it in return.”

The glare disappeared and it turned into something wary.

“It was nice talking to you,” Harry whispered before he closed the door. He just wished the conversation could have been with the real Malfoy.

There was still a long way to go before Malfoy’s mystery was solved, but he felt a lot better about the outcome. If Malfoy was anything like the painting, then Harry wanted to see him even more than before.

He just had to find him.

* * *

**Saturday, **

_Perhaps knowledge can be a mistake. I should have just left my questions alone and not looked deeper. I thought if I looked into negative emotions like hate or anger, it would enlighten me to what those can do to affect the body. It did, but it gave me more than I wanted. _

_When dealing with hate, anger or feeling wronged, the brain works in overdrive to match the emotion to an event, making it memorable. It heightens it while also ingraining it to the psyche. Is that why I have a hard time forgiving my parents or even myself? Because it’s memorable? Because my brain has heightened it to memory? _

_The book I read went on to talk about forgiveness. Which is a fucking joke. _

_I’ve always thought forgiveness was giving up. That it was letting them off the hook, or letting them get away with hurting me. That it was allowing them the chance to keep hurting me. But the more I research the more I’ve come to realize that not forgiving someone is harming me more than the anger ever will. Because it’s ingrained into the psyche, it’s beneficial to my health to resolve the pain and anger. _

_That’s asking for a lot. Is it even possible?_

_The book says that forgiving others is not forgetting it, it’s not letting them off Scot-free, it’s not reverting into a victim for them to keep doing it, it’s not reconciling, it’s not based on their actions but instead my own attitude. If they aren’t sorry, I’m supposed to still forgive, because it’s not about them, it’s about me and my health. _

_I don’t know if I can do that. _

_Withholding forgiveness is refusing to let go of perceived power. I hold the forgiveness in my hands—no one else—it’s something they can only get from me. If I let that go, then I no longer have anything over them and I become powerless again. _

_Am I ready for that?_

_Forgiveness is a process, not an event. It will take time and above all else, it’s a choice. If I don’t choose to forgive, then there is no faking it._

_Exposing the anger. That’s what the book said. I always thought it was already exposed, but apparently not. I’m supposed to examine my anger and not only feel how deep the anger goes but also ask myself if I’m denying it or if I’m angrier than I thought. Once that is done, there is a question that has to be asked. One I don’t know if I can answer. _

_Do I want to heal?_

_Sounds like a simple question. Sounds like it should be easy and the answer should be on the tip of my tongue. But wanting to heal means actually forgiving. I could say no, I could refuse, but then that means I’m refusing to heal. Commitment would be the next step should I want to proceed. I’d have to commit to it. _

_I don’t think I’m ready for that. Is that wrong of me? Is it supposed to be easier?_

_If I can’t forgive them or even myself, how can I expect those I have wronged to want to forgive me? The things I did were far worse. I suppose it all depends on subjective experiences, and the two don’t correlate, but I don’t have high hopes. _

_I know that I’m not supposed to seek out forgiveness for the sake of acknowledgment, but the more I learn about how hard it is to forgive, that acknowledgment is a validation I didn’t think existed. I want to be forgiven, I do, but I know that I’m not owed that. I’m not entitled to forgiveness. Just because I’m learning to forgive doesn’t mean they are, and that’s okay. That’s their right. _

_I never thought forgiveness went this deep. Never thought I’d struggle so hard on both ends of it. I don’t know what to do. Guilt comes with refusing to forgive and even that can affect the psyche. Every emotion seems to, and that just complicates everything. _

_I’m torn, so torn. I wish there was someone I could turn to. Someone who could offer advice. I’m going in alone and partially blind. While the books help, so much is unknown, and I feel like I’ll drown if I try. But not trying helps nothing. Not trying is the status quo. I’ve come so far in learning to be a better person, if I stop at forgiveness what would that say about me?_

_Even with the books, I still am not sure where to start. Do I make a list? Do I write down everyone who has ever wronged me? Am I to examine that and begin there?_

_I just want to say fuck forgiveness. That’s my predominant emotion. If I can’t force forgiveness, since it’s a choice, does that mean I have to put forgiveness on a shelf to come back to when I’m ready? It feels like I’m giving up, but I don’t think I’m ready for this, I have to put it on hold. _

_Thinking about it, realizing what has to happen eventually, that has be enough for now. I’m not refusing to forgive; I’m just waiting until I can fully commit to it. _

_I just hope that isn’t an excuse shrouded in denial. I have too many of those. _

**—Draco**

* * *

Harry looked down at the mood globe in frustration but mostly anger. The damn thing was confusing him. Goyle had said it was linked to Malfoy’s emotions but there didn’t seem to be another globe of its kind before. No books, no information, nothing—there was absolutely nothing.

How did Malfoy make it?

What did the white smoke mean? Goyle thought that meant he was alive. If Malfoy had run away, then the colours should still be working properly. There was no explanation for it only being white _if _Malfoy had left of his own volition. If Malfoy was dead, then there would be no colour at all.

So what did the white mean?

Was he alive but incapacitated? Alive but drugged up? Alive but magic gone haywire? All he had was Goyle’s say so that the bloody thing was even connected to Malfoy’s emotions. There was no proof of that.

The mood globe mocked him the longer he stared at it. He wished it would do something. The disappointment wasn’t as strong as his desire to try and track Malfoy’s magic. Since Malfoy didn’t do magic often, the globe was his only shot.

Harry walked into Malfoy’s office ignoring the painting completely as he sat down. The globe was placed on top of the journal before his hands hovered over it and his eyes closed. Sensing magic was the easy part. The tingles, the energy, the wavelengths, all of it was surrounding the globe.

“His magic is nice.” Harry opened one eye to look at the portrait, who was watching him intently. “Almost soothing.”

It was hard to verbalize a description; words didn’t seem enough. He wasn’t sure how to adequately explain the differences in Malfoy’s magic compared to his own. Malfoy’s magic was subtle, barely felt but impactful. His own magic was bold, very present and very hard to ignore. There was power in both, but the subtle touches of Malfoy’s magic were an advantage; easy to overlook, easy to miss, easy to let your guard down.

“Your counterpart would make a hell of an assassin.”

When the Painting-Malfoy’s mouth parted, finger raised, Harry couldn’t help but snort.

“I’m not condoning, I’m just saying the magical signature is so subtle that it would be hard for Aurors to track for sure.”

Harry was good at tracking, definitely better than the majority of the Aurors. Being a P.I. with zero law enforcement help, meant he had to hone his skills and get good at some kind of tracking.

Despite the signature being subtle, Harry was confident it could be tracked. He stood up, leaving the globe where it was before walking out of the room. There were traces of Malfoy’s magic in the flat, which was typical, but it was weak, very weak.

Harry opened the front door to step outside. There was no lingering magic at all. Malfoy never left through the front door. Considering the wards had been left intact, that wasn’t a surprise. Back inside, he walked through each room to gauge the strength of magic. The rest of the place was the same, just weak traces.

If Malfoy didn’t leave through the front door, and the Aurors suspected he left through Floo, then why was there no Floo record anywhere? Even if Malfoy didn’t allow the Ministry access to the records, there were _always _personal ones. No way Malfoy took it with him, there would be no point. If something happened and he was forced through the Floo, then it would make sense for an attacker to take them. 

Harry walked back into the office and looked around the room with narrowed eyes. Malfoy’s magic was a little stronger in the room than the rest of the flat, but not by much. He closed his eyes in an attempt to detect anyone else’s magic. The potent feel of his own magic was a little embarrassing, he was over here too much.

At first, nothing seemed out of place, but as he was about to give up, _something_ made him pause.

“Huh.”

His head tilted to the side as he took a step closer to the fireplace. The portrait on the mantle looked at him like he was delusional, but it was a replica of Malfoy—what did his opinion matter?

“There’s something here,” Harry frowned, eyes searching the fireplace. “It’s almost like the absence of something.”

Painting-Malfoy arched a brow, face not impressed.

“I can tell something is supposed to be here, but there’s nothing. It’s like if I were to move furniture, you’d be able to see that something had been there regardless if it’s there currently or not. Same thing. I can tell that something was _supposed _to be here, but it’s missing.”

He got a frown in response as Painting-Malfoy pointed at himself.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “There _is _magic coming from the portrait but that’s normal. I think someone applied a magical buffer recently.”

Painting-Malfoy’s brows furrowed, and that Harry could relate too, he was confused himself.

“I’ve seen the staff at St. Mungos use magical buffers when dealing with patients. It keeps their magic separated so it won’t interfere with whatever spell, curse or malady was placed on the patients.”

The deadpan expression followed by a glare let Harry know that that was not new information to the portrait. Well, affirmation never hurt anyone.

“What I want to know is why a buffer would have been used here. Was your counterpart sick?”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head.

“Did he apply the buffer?”

Another shake of a head had Harry groaning. “Well someone did, and I’m beginning to think it was whoever took your counterpart.”

Even saying that made Harry uneasy. It wasn’t like him to decide what had happened to someone without damning evidence to support the claim. But with every new information that he uncovered, it pointed towards Malfoy being taken, or harmed before the body was taken. Either way, his hunch was stronger than his logic.

“Was the Floo open to the public?”

Painting-Malfoy curled his lip. Guess that was a no.

“Did he have it open to anyone?”

One finger was lifted in the air before the portrait’s hands shook violently and corrected it to two fingers.

“I’m guessing Goyle is one of them?” He didn’t need the nod to know he was right. “Why did you have to correct yourself? Was the second one not typical?”

Another nod.

“I don’t suppose you know of a way to let me know who the other one was?”

Painting-Malfoy pointed at the journal behind Harry. “The answer is in there?”

When he got a shake of a head, Harry wanted to scream. Getting anything out of a silent portrait was nearly impossible.

Painting-Malfoy raised a hand horizontally and shook it slightly.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Harry looked back at the journal. “Is that a sort of? The answer is sort of in there?”

When he got a nod back, it left him confused. How could the answer be sort of in the journal? What did that even mean?

“How do you know it’s in there?” Did Malfoy talk about what he wrote? Were self-portraits more aware if the person was still alive? He really needed to talk to an artist. Maybe they could give him some answers.

Painting-Malfoy rolled his eyes as he pointed at the journal again and then at himself. As if that was supposed to mean anything.

“You’re connected to the journal? No, that doesn’t make sense.” Fuck he hated this. “I’ll just keep looking through the journal to see what you mean.”

Not that the journal had been much help in that regard anyway. All it did was give him insight into who Malfoy was as a person—something he was becoming rather partial to.

He might not have solved anything, but the day wasn’t a total bust. Malfoy’s magic was able to have been tracked, someone applied a magical buffer and only two people had access to the Floo. He was pretty positive Goyle wasn’t the one who did it. All he had left to do is figure out who the other one was.

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. I adored being able to show the silent painting again. I missed the snarkiness. When doing research for this chapter, I did not expect how fucking deep forgiveness was. lmao it was a callout for sure because I can't forgive for shit. But it was super fascinating to me, that's for sure. 
> 
> The part that hit me in the feels the most was Draco's 'Maybe I don't believe me' wheww, my heart 
> 
> I'm so curious, but I'm not going to ask any questions this time. Let me know what you thought! See you next time. 
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


	7. Revelations of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This one was a bit emotional at times. I think I got teary-eyed twice? shks. But I want to say before you read it, don't lose hope okay!

**Tuesday, **

_Yesterday I read a book on a topic I have been avoiding. It’s one I’ve always known I’d have to get to in-depth, but I never wanted to. _

_Change. _

_That’s a word that has always scared me. As a kid, I had dreamed that maybe things could change. Maybe my father could change, maybe my mother could hold me, maybe they’d love me more. But I was reminded that I can’t change other people, no matter how much I wish I could. Those things were not something that was up to me, it wasn’t anything I could work towards. _

_And that is a hard potion to swallow. _

_It’s not fair that other people’s actions can affect me so much, and there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can do is hope that they want to change on their own and let time speak for itself. _

_I’ve known throughout this whole journey that I was already changing, I get that, but the fear is still there. I still wonder if I can do it, I still worry that I haven’t changed at all and am just pretending or deluding myself. _

_The book helped more than I thought it would. I think when I set out to change, I was very broad in my wishes. Just wishing to be a better person is vague. Vague in a way where I’m never sure when the goal will be met. I need to change the progress of the goal to one that is steps, small but manageable steps that will lead me to the same result, only this way I can check on my own growth and not feel so lost. When I’m struggling to see a dent in being a better person, it’ll be easier to tell what’s stopping me if I have it sectioned out. I already feel more organized. _

_It makes me think I can really do this. _

_Self-affirmation. That’s a step in change. I think out of everything, this will be one of the hardest. I’ve always excelled at self-deprecation, and now I’m supposed to do the opposite? Merlin, that’s difficult. Part of me wants to leave it at a simple ‘I like everything about me’ but that’s a lie, isn’t it? Can anyone truly like all aspects of themselves? _

_I need to stick to realistic affirmations. I need to stick to things that I can’t argue my way out of like: ‘I am smart’, ‘I am learning’, ‘I am trying’, ‘I can change’, ‘I can be better’, ‘I can be the person I want to be’, ‘I will prove myself’, ‘I will overcome my hatred’, ‘I will see the wonder in Muggles’, ‘I will see the strengths of Muggleborns’, ‘I will be a good person’. _

_Those are things that I can’t ignore, things I can’t talk myself out of, those are things that have no clauses or loopholes. Those are truths, just as true as the facts in the books that I read. _

_I just have to let myself believe them. _

_Visualization. Another hard step in changing. I’m supposed to visualize my goals, see myself at the end of this and picture it all—it’s to be my incentive. But how do I picture what I don’t understand? Am I supposed to imagine myself surrounded by Muggles? Because… _

_Or maybe I’m supposed to visualize myself as I am but with the difference of knowledge. The difference of having strong morals and something to stand for. I don’t know what to imagine, I don’t have the creativity for that, and I feel stuck. _

_Why is this so hard? Even with the books, even with the research, it’s a struggle. Is it supposed to be one? I feel like it shouldn’t be a struggle, good people don’t have to try to be good. Although, I’ve never been that, have I? Maybe those that aren’t good are the ones that do struggle. Maybe I’m right on the path? Is that just hope?_

_I don’t want to hope. I don’t want to rely on a flighty emotion that can buckle under the weight of reality. Hope is hard to feel but so easy to lose. How can I trust such a shallow emotion? Shallow in the fact that I can see through it, I can see the limited depth. _

_That scares me. _

_The new knowledge came with warnings. Disruptions. There will always be something unintended, unexpected and unforeseen when it comes to change. There will be hurdles where I wonder if it’s worth it, where I doubt myself or I come in contact with those that doubt me too. I already knew that, already experienced it. _

_The prejudiced Muggles were unexpected, and I did want to give up. I did wonder if it was worth it and I did doubt myself. Back then, it felt like failure, it felt like there was something wrong with me. But it’s comforting knowing that hurdles are to be expected. It shows that progress isn’t clear cut, that the jagged lines of my path are just as valid as ones that are straight. _

_I discovered that there is opportunity in failure. Not only is it a learning experience, but also serves as a blueprint on what to change when going forward. I can fail but keep going. I can change my goals along the way, and it won’t be failure. If I can amend what I’m yearning for and it will still be my path, it won’t mean starting over. I can learn to be a good person and still learn other things along the way. _

_I don’t want to fail, but the prospect of it is not as daunting as it was before. Because what comes with every failure is the strive to try again. _

_Despite my reservations about yesterday’s lesson, it was a good one. Ironically, change is what my Mind Healer suggested I look into when I went to today’s session. I didn’t tell her that I was already doing that, I didn’t tell her about my goals, and I didn’t tell her how I wish to change. _

_I’m not sure why. Is it because speaking about it would make it real? Would the pressure to change make it harder? I wanted to tell her, but I think I want this to be a me thing for now. I will tell her when I think I have a better grasp on it. I want to have truly made progress before I tell other people. _

_Her suggested change wasn’t as prolific as the books. She thinks that changing a few rooms in my flat and even changing bits of my routine is a good starting step. Switch around the furniture, buy new potions or decorations. Even suggested I buy a painting. I guess my flat could use some new decorations, not really sure what I’d get, but I’m not opposed to that. I don’t like to buy potions; I make my own. It’s hard to find the will or drive to do what I used to love, but I can try. _

_But a painting? What’s the point? Who would I even get? _

_I’m not sure I understand where she’s coming from, especially after everything I told her in our first session. Is it supposed to be a self-introspection kind of thing? I can’t tell if I’m offended, somewhat wary, possibly intrigued or just angry. _

_Yeah, it’s been many years and I don’t know if anything has changed, but I’d rather not get a painting if I can avoid it. I told her I’d think about what she said, but it was more for the other things in general. Part of me thinks after all the progress I’ve made that maybe I could get a painting. _

_Childhood horrors can’t haunt me forever, right?_

_The real question is who would I even get? I honestly only like my friends and myself. Seems kind of pointless to get one of Greg. A self-portrait is kind of… pretentious, right? I’ve always been pretentious, so maybe that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. _

_I don’t know. I don’t like it. I can change my flat, I can change my furniture, I can change my routine, I can brew more, and maybe even buy some plants. _

_But I don’t want to get a painting. At all. _

_After everything I’ve learned over the past few days, I think I’m happy with my progress regardless of what I change aesthetically in my life. Change still scares me, but it also fills me with hope, however see-through that hope may be. _

_It’s something to think about, but for now, I’m content. _

**—Draco **

* * *

Harry looked up at the portrait, mind a bit frazzled. The familiar glare would have amused him if he hadn’t been so lost in thought.

“Malfoy doesn’t like paintings?”

A shudder from Painting-Malfoy concerned Harry. That didn’t seem like simple dislike.

“Hogwarts has hundreds and hundreds of them. Was he okay with those ones?”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head, face a bit pale. ‘Childhood horrors’ that’s what the journal said. What exactly did that mean? Had something happened to Malfoy as a kid?

“Was he okay with you being made?”

A firm shake of his head had Harry a little stumped. So Malfoy got a painting of himself, one he never wanted to begin with. Why?

“Was the portrait given to him?”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head, hands up as if touching the canvas.

“Did he ask for it?”

Another shake of his head, and Harry was a little lost.

“Someone forced him to take the painting?”

Painting-Malfoy half nodded, and half shook his head. What was that supposed to mean?

“Would your friends know who I could go to for more information?”

Harry expected the shake of a head, but it was still frustrating. Merlin, he hated that the painting couldn’t talk.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry whispered and for the first time in a long time, he felt crushed. He placed his head in his hands and wondered what else was left to do. He had talked to friends, family and even his bloody Mind Healer. He had searched the flat and traced the magic.

What else was there?

When Harry opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the journal. Malfoy put so much of himself inside the pages, tried so hard to be a better person—he didn’t deserve whatever happened to him.

“I’ve never liked change either,” Harry said, nodding to the journal when the quiet was too much for him. “I got used to it though.”

Painting-Malfoy titled his head to the side, watching Harry.

“I didn’t know I was a wizard until I was 11.” The wide-eyed look he got in return had his lips twitching. “Everything in my life changed after that. Then it changed again when I was told about my parents and Voldemort. Changed again when I was suddenly seen as some kind of celebrity. I went from a kid hoping to one day get out of a bloody cupboard to being revered by strangers.”

The more Harry talked the more perturbed Painting-Malfoy’s expression became. It was almost like he cared. 

“My life changed after I met what was left of Voldemort during my first year. Changed when I faced his Horcrux my second year—” he half-choked on a laugh at the horrified parted mouth on Painting-Malfoy’s face.

“Everything changed again during my third year when I found out I had a Godfather, someone who actually gave a damn about me. Then fourth year happened and that changed me in so many ways. I’m not even talking about the tournament. I saw a friend die, watched Voldemort return, my blood helped bring him back and then I had to fight him. There were no more illusions, I couldn’t pretend to one day want a normal life.”

There was a sad expression at his words, but at least it wasn’t pity. Harry could handle sad, he could handle empathy, but he refused to take anyone’s pity.

“I lost Sirius my fifth year,” Harry closed his eyes at the sharp pain he got every time he thought of Sirius. “I wish that wasn’t a change I went through. There were a lot of changes in my sixth year, and I don’t just mean with Dumbledore dying.”

Harry paused at a stray thought. “You know, I just realized something.”

The impatient hand gestured toward him had Harry rolling his eyes. The artist sure captured Malfoy’s likeness that was for sure.

“Despite my life-changing every bloody year, you were a constant.”

Painting-Malfoy’s brows furrowed and so did Harry’s.

“I never enjoyed our interactions, but they were a routine. A lot _did _change my sixth year but my fixation on you never did.”

He had to look away when the look on Painting-Malfoy’s face was enough to make him flush.

“Not some of my better moments,” Harry said, hands raised. “I can own up to that. I was a touch… obsessed as Ron would say. I would call it aware, but that’s splitting hairs.”

The hand was back at the edge of the painting and Harry wondered what that meant.

“I knew something was wrong with you,” Harry whispered, eyes leaving the portrait when grey eyes met his. “The years I had spent watching you, waiting for whatever stupid thing you’d do to me and my friends, it let me see your routine. You didn’t just stop doing your usual stuff that year, you also looked like shit.”

He snorted at the outrage and fists now banging on the canvas.

“I was the only one who thought you took the mark. Everyone said I was wrong, that I was looking too deep into it, that I needed to stop. It’s funny to me that your friends said you had a fixation on me, because we were the same in that regard.”

Painting-Malfoy placed his hands on his hip, face contorted again. So damn dramatic.

“Hey, they were the ones to say it, not me,” Harry grinned as he watched Painting-Malfoy work himself up into a frenzy.

“Anyway,” he said, pointedly. “I think we both know that my life continued to change after my sixth year and to be honest, it’s never stopped changing.”

That was something he didn’t like. “I don’t know if it’s just a by-product of life, or if I’m just cursed to have a shitty lot in life.”

There was understanding in grey eyes, something he didn’t really expect. But if anyone else understood, then it _would_ be Malfoy.

“What I’m trying to get at, is that I don’t have the answers to a lot of the things asked in the journal. I think your counterpart has this misconception that being good will come with revelations, and that’s just not what happens. I’m just as lost as him in so many ways.”

It was a little sad at the lost look he got in return. He didn’t want to ruin any incentives or whatever pushed Malfoy to keep going, but it was true.

“I think it’s just life. There’s so much we don’t know. I may be ‘good’, but I go through the same emotions as you do. I go through life just the same as any other person. The only difference we ever had between us was what he thought and how we showed ourselves to others. I embraced what you distanced yourself from. But this journal shows change in ways I find admirable.

“Our change is very different. I was always forced to change, either by others or circumstances out of my control. This though? This is a change that Malfoy is doing on his own. It’s a change that I’ve never experienced. He might have been afraid of change, and while I understand that, I can’t help but wish he knew how brave changing at all is.”

Lips mouthed ‘brave’ and Harry smiled slightly. “He’s brave. It’s not a bold, reckless or omnipresent brave that I’ve always embodied; it’s a subtle, sophisticated, and profound bravery. A bravery that others might miss or overlook. It’s rather similar to his magic. Malfoy _is _brave, he _is _a good person and he _deserves_ to know that.”

Harry wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the painting turning his back on him was not it. Had he overstepped? Had he said something wrong?

When he moved toward the painting, intending to ask for clarification, he could see shoulders shaking and that was when he _understood_. Clearly, the painting had retained a lot of Malfoy’s insecurities and doubts. He wondered if the real Malfoy would react the same way.

“Change can be scary, necessary, inspiring, or even beneficial. I wonder which one of those has happened since I took this case.”

Painting-Malfoy froze, back still turned.

Harry didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, didn’t want to make a big deal out something that obviously affected him. So he left with a final parting message.

“Because Malfoy has changed me too.” 

* * *

**Thursday, **

_I got another letter from my father today. While I’m not surprised, I am upset. I can’t tell if it’s at him for not giving up or at me for feeling guilty. He’s trying and I’m ignoring every attempt. I can’t help but think to the book on forgiveness. _

_Am I withholding forgiveness because I feel like I have something over him?_

_What if his words aren’t good enough? What happens if I actually open it and I am just disappointed once again. He never had words to say to my face but suddenly he can in a letter? I deserve more than that. I always have. _

_It’s so easy to pretend the letters aren’t real. It’s so easy to ignore it, ignore him. It’s so easy to hold a grudge and it’s so easy to refuse to see what I don’t want to. _

_But when does it become too much? When will it no longer be something I can ignore? Will he have to come to me? Or will it truly end with me forgiving him and then by extension my mother. Is forgiving someone being the bigger person? _

_He was never the bigger person, so why the hell should I have to?_

_I know I sound childish, but I never really got to be a child, did I? Not with him as a father, not with his teachings inside me and not with that household. It sounds like an excuse and I think part of it is, but my stomach is in knots thinking of talking to him. Because if I talk to him then that means we’ll have to talk about everything. I’m not ready for that. _

_I don’t think I ever will be. _

_If I open those letters then it becomes real. If I see what he has to say then I can no longer live in a delusional mindset where I can pretend that nothing is wrong, that there is nothing out of the ordinary by ignoring my parents’ existence. _

_But they ignored mine when I needed them the most. _

_Is it revenge? Is that why I can’t bring myself to do it? I truly want to understand why I can’t seem to forgive. I know I don’t want to and that explains most of it, but there’s more there underneath it all. I feel so strongly and have so many emotions raging inside me that it’s hard to really decipher what I’m feeling. _

_I’m so confused, so angry and so lost. _

_I can’t decide if I should find another book on forgiveness. Maybe if I keep looking, and keep reading, the message will stick. But it all comes back to that one question. Do I want to heal?_

_I don’t have an answer for that. _

_Knowing what I can do to help myself and my mental health but choosing to ignore it must be some kind of self-sabotage. Do I not want to heal? _

_Maybe it’s more about that than I think. What if it’s the opposite of what I’ve been telling myself? What if I’m scared not just on the off chance that the letters won’t be enough, but on the chance that they are. If I give in and open it, what if his words are what I’ve always wanted? Then what? _

_I’ve spent so long hating him, hating my circumstances and hating that he never gave a damn. But if those letters counter everything I’ve felt, then what was it all for? Why did I have to go through all of that?_

_If he’s changed, why did it have to happen at my expense? At my happiness? At my feelings? Parents are supposed to be the best they can for their children, but I only ever got to see his worst. That’s not fair. If I read his letters and he’s changed, then it’s a slap to the face to the years of only ever getting pain. _

_Why couldn’t he have changed when I needed him to? Why wasn’t I enough of a reason to try? Why now? Why? Why? Why?_

_I just—_

_I hate who he was, I hate the memories I have of him, I hate the way he used to make me feel, I hate the way I used to hate myself for not being what he wanted, I hate him so much. _

_But I hate the hatred inside of me more. _

_I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t like who I am when I think of him. The pure anger and rage is scary, and I have no one to direct it at, no healthy outlet. That anger just bounces back at me and I’m the one who suffers. Not him, never him. Me, always me. _

_I can’t keep going like this. It’s not fair to me. He never had my best interests in mind, so I have to. I have to be the one to care about myself. No one else ever did. I can’t keep waiting for someone else to help, someone else to come in and charm me away. _

_I have to be my own saviour. I have to be the change that I want. I have to let him go for me. I have to let the childish illusions I once had of him go. I can’t keep deluding myself anymore. I have to let the anger leave, because it’s hurting me. _

_I have to let it go by forgiving him. And I think it’s going to be one the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It hurts to try, it hurts to not bother and it hurts to even think about. If any option will hurt, then why am I not picking the one that will eventually lead to healing?_

_If I’m as smart as I like to think, then there’s only really one option. And it’s the hardest one. But that’s my lot in life, isn’t it? To walk down the hard paths. _

_Understanding what I have to do does not make it suddenly easier. I know I need to try, and I will, but I’m not sure when that will happen. It won’t be soon; it won’t be a quick process. It’s going to take me some time, but I think I can do it. _

_I hope I can do it. _

_Failure with this sounds like relief. Part of me wants to fail, that way I won’t have to keep hurting as I try. But if I don’t succeed than the failure is more than that. Failure will be a never-ending cycle of pain, only this time I’m the one causing it. _

_Forgiveness never hurts the forgiven, why is that? They only gain. I’m the one who will lose. Is there any gain in forgiveness outside of healing? Or is that the only compensation I can expect?_

_I’m not doing this for him. I don’t want to do a damn thing for him. I’m doing this for me. I’m doing this because I can’t keep going as I am. This is for me, and it’s about time someone had my best interests in mind. _

_Even if it’s only me. Even if it’s only ever been me. _

**—Draco**

* * *

Harry gave Luna a sheepish shrug when she opened her door. He really did need to stop only showing up when he needed emotional stability.

Luna rolled her eyes before opening the door wider. “Well, come in. I’ve got pumpkin juice brewing.”

“Brewing?” Harry’s nose wrinkled.

“It’s best when hot.”

No, no it wasn’t. “That’s disgusting.”

“For that, you can sit on the floor like you did last time.”

Harry smiled as he did just that. He didn’t mind the floor; it was becoming his thinking spot.

“I don’t think you came here to argue about pumpkin juice,” Luna said over a mug that was steaming, and his stomach lurched at the sight.

“No,” Harry agreed, eyes on his hands that began to fidget. “I didn’t.”

“Is it your feelings again?”

He’d have argued that it wasn’t his feelings last time either, but she had that look in her eyes, the one that meant he’d get a lecture and then forced to go through a tarot card reading.

“I’ve hit a dead-end.” It hurt to admit. Harry prided himself in his abilities, and not finding Malfoy was beginning to take its toll on him. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You have options, Harry. You always have.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going to give up, if that’s what you mean.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Luna said before she grabbed a handful of cards. “But it _is _an option.”

“Not for me.” He wasn’t like the Aurors, he wasn’t going to give up just because the case didn’t make sense. He wasn’t going to just give up the longer time passed. That wasn’t who he was.

“Are you truly stuck?” Luna asked, eyes on something behind him as her mug floated and so did the cards. “There’s nothing left you can do? No one left to talk to? No leads to hunt down?”

Harry looked down at his feet, fingers trailing along his trainers. “The only one I talk to anymore is the portrait.”

The cards that had been about to fly into Luna’s hands fell to the ground, startling him.

“Portrait? What portrait?”

Harry frowned at the intensity in her eyes. “Malfoy has a portrait in his office, it’s where I go to read his journal.”

“What kind of portrait? Of who?”

He wasn’t sure why she was so interested. Wizards had portraits all the time. Hell, Luna had a big one of some lunatic from the 1200s who swore at Harry every time he came over.

“Of himself. It’s a self-portrait.”

Luna arched her brows as she relaxed. “That doesn’t surprise me, actually.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, I wasn’t that surprised either.”

“Has the portrait helped you? If something happened to him, wouldn’t he know? Has he said whatever he saw?”

“He hasn’t spoken to me.”

There was a frown on her face, and he didn’t like it. Luna rarely frowned. “He’s been ignoring you? I suppose that doesn’t surprise me either.”

“Not exactly. He hasn’t spoken because he can’t. He’s some kind of silent portrait.”

The mug of pumpkin juice fell to the floor with a crash.

“What?”

“I—” Harry scooted back at the look in Luna’s face, it was unnerving. “He doesn’t talk because he can’t.”

Luna didn’t blink as she stared at him, and that too was unnerving.

“What’s going on? It’s not a big deal.”

Luna’s head shook but so did her whole body. “Yes, it is, Harry. Do you know what a silent painting is?”

“A painting that doesn’t talk.”

Normally his sass would have gotten him a forced card reading, but it was like Luna wasn’t fully aware, and she _still_ hadn’t blinked. 

“It’s a bad omen,” she whispered, hands shaking as she shuffled her cards. “Paintings aren’t supposed to be silent. When they are, that means something went wrong, something happened during the process that corrupted the painting.”

“Corrupted?” Harry frowned. “He didn’t seem corrupted.”

“You shouldn’t talk to it.”

Harry sat up straighter. “Why not?” He _liked _talking to the painting. It was almost comforting.

“They are an omen for a reason. People only make silent paintings of those who they want to bring suffering to.”

Suffering? “Are you saying someone made the painting intentionally?”

“There’s no way he had it made himself.”

“Why?” He thought back to the journal and felt like maybe Luna was wrong. Malfoy had been wary about getting a portrait, but he _had _said that he’d consider it, sort of.

“Because it’s a bad omen,” Luna said slowly, overemphasizing the words. He threw one of the cards that had landed at his feet at her.

“If it was a half-blood or even a Muggleborn, I think they might have kept a silent painting. But a pureblood, one as ‘pure’ as Malfoy? No.”

“But he did,” Harry argued. “The painting has been there for a while.”

“How do you know?”

“Well—” He didn’t, not really. “His journal mentioned the possibility of getting a portrait, he even mentioned a self-portrait!”

Luna tapped her fingers against her knee restlessly. Restless wasn’t a descriptor he had _ever _used to describe her.

“I suppose he could’ve had the portrait made and something went wrong.”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I asked the portrait if Malfoy had him made and he shook his head. It wasn’t given to him either. He kind of implied that it was forced.”

Luna inched slowly away from Harry, as if _he _had something to do with it.

“Harry, I don’t want you to go back there.”

“I have to.” He didn’t understand her worries, not really. Maybe it was because he didn’t grow up with their customs. “I can assure you that the painting isn’t bad, the only downside is it has Malfoy’s personality.”

Luna turned more towards him with a serious expression and worried eyes. “If that painting truly was forced upon Malfoy, then that means someone wanted to hurt him.”

“But how do you—”

“The custom nowadays when two people have a disagreement is usually a duel. It’s been like that for decades. But a long time ago, silent paintings were left behind on the bodies of those that were killed. No duels, no fair shot, no seconds—just murder.”

No. Harry shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the possibility.

“But there was no body,” he tried to rationalize. “It was on his mantle.”

“Then they wanted it to be found. They wanted people to know that Malfoy had not only been bested but had been given a silent portrait.”

Harry closed his eyes as he remembered the buffer. The buffer had been placed around the fireplace. If someone had gone through the trouble of hiding their magic when they took Malfoy, then—

“No,” Harry argued as he covered his ears. “He can’t be dead. I would know if he was.”

“Would you?”

No, but Harry felt like he would. There was so much pointing to Malfoy being alive. “But his magic was tied to a globe, it shows his emotions when done right! The magic never left. He _has _to be alive, _right_?”

Luna moved toward him, pulling him into a hug and that was horrifyingly close to an answer. His eyes stung and he couldn’t return the embrace.

“I don’t know, Harry.” It was whispered so softly, as if he’d break if it were louder. “I never wanted you to take the case.”

“I _had _to.” His eyes were blurry, and he couldn’t see out of his glasses.

“I know. And I know you’re not going to give up until you prove me wrong and find him.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t give up. Not now, not ever. 

“Is that stupid?” Harry asked, not really wanting an answer. “Is it stupid of me to want to keep trying?”

“It’s you, that’s what it is.” Her arms tightened around him and it was just as suffocating as it was comforting. “You’ll do what you’ve always done, never give up.”

“No,” Harry argued. “Malfoy never gave up, so I’m not going to give up on him.”

Even as she cried with him, Harry refused to change his mind. Every single part of him screamed that Malfoy was alive. Whether it was foolish, naive or downright stupid, he believed he’d find Malfoy.

_He had to. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..... shks don't hate me. But as I said in the beginning notes, don't lose hope! 
> 
> I really enjoy when I can write scenes of Harry and the portrait. It's challenging in a way but it's also fun. The journal entries are a little hard. Mainly because they can be emotional but there's also a lot of them shks. But I like them. 
> 
> We are getting closer to the end! Only a few more chapters left. I'd give a number but I know me, I'd probably go past that since I have no self-control. I do have the next chapter almost done and it will definitely be ready by next week's update date. I hope you liked this chapter, and I am so excited to see any theories. (I'll start replying to the comments after I post this!)
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


	8. Wonder's Fixations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very very tired. It's 10am and I've been up all night. (not doing this, this chapter has been done for almost a week) Normally, I'd have uploaded this in about 6 hours but I will hopefully be deadass asleep at that time. I did edit this twice but my sleepy mind might have missed some things, so I'll relook at it when I wake up

**Monday, **

_Fixations have always been part of me. It took me a long time to realize that growing up. I just thought it was normal. I thought everyone was the same. I’m not sure why I am the way I am, but I am more aware of myself now than before. _

_The spectrum of my fixations hasn’t always worked out in my favour. There was a time when I spent months and months studying with one goal in mind. Make my father proud. He was a fixation I thought I could attain. Emotionally, that one hurt. Realistically, it went by quick. I moved on to something else. _

_It’s what I always do. _

_I don’t need Pansy to tell me that Potter was a fixation. Sometimes, I think I can argue that, and then other times I don’t know what that was. She would say that my fixation started the moment he turned my friendship down. I’m sure a lot of people would say the same. But they’d be wrong. It started when I met a boy with bright green eyes that matched his personality in a robe shop. _

_When I first met him, he had on dingy clothes that were too large for him. I knew he wasn’t a pureblood. Anyone with eyes could have seen that. I knew it was a good thing my father hadn’t accompanied me; I could all too easily imagine the things he’d have said. I thought about ignoring Potter, that’s what pureblood etiquette would have dictated I do. Ignore what isn’t pure, ignore what won’t benefit you. _

_There I was, angry and upset that I was alone. It wasn’t the first time I had been left by myself to do what my parents should have. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be anywhere but there. _

_But Potter? He looked around the shop in wonder. There was an awe to him that I had never seen before. There was nothing special about the shop. It was just filled with robes and material that weren’t worth a second glance. I’m used to floating robes and measuring tapes that levitate or even talk. It was boring to me; everything was so dull and not worth my time. Potter though, he saw magic in a way I had taken for granted. When was the last time I paused to watch magic work? When was the last time I appreciated something I’ve always had?_

_I wanted that wonder. I wanted that awe. So I talked to him. _

_It would be easy to blame my parents for the things I said. I was a kid repeating their teachings. But even then, I believed what I was told. I believed those teachings and I embodied them. It was obvious that Potter didn’t want to keep talking to me, which frustrated me. I was supposed to be the best, right? That’s what my father always said. So why did Potter look like I was the opposite? _

_I never did forget the interaction. The summer continued, my lessons went on and so did my magic. I’d catch myself thinking of him whenever I’d cast a spell. I kept hoping to find that wonder. I kept hoping to see what Potter had seen. I wanted that too._

_Despite what people think, I didn’t go to him on the train purely for his namesake. That was one of the reasons I wanted to stay away. I had already left a bad impression, what good would talking to him do if nothing could come of it? My father never would have been okay with any sort of friendship with him. So why bother?_

_Vincent wanted to see him, wanted to see the legend of Harry Potter. But I didn’t care about the legend, I didn’t care what the books said. When I entered that compartment, I wanted to befriend the boy who was filled with so much wonder that it changed my perspective on our world. That’s who I wanted to meet. _

_And well, that was a bloody disaster, wasn’t it?_

_When he turned me down, it wasn’t a surprise, I could see the contempt already on his face. It was the same contempt my father had every time I didn’t meet his expectations. It was a look of disappointment. Clearly, I wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to befriend. _

_I think that’s when my fixation took a different turn. Oh, I still wanted that wonder, I still envied the innocent awe of our world. But I was also hurt, in a way. Not a hurt that correlates to a victim, but more of my pride. I was hurt, but it was a hurt I had caused. I wasn’t going to take that out on me._

_So I took it out on him. _

_With my fixations, I always know when it should end. I’ll get bored and move on. That’s how it always is, but not with him. With each encounter, with each fight, and with each verbal altercation my fixation grew. Year after year the bloody thing never went away. I wanted it to, I think I needed it to as well. But I was never sure how to do that. How do you end something that’s been a motivation for so long?_

_Life though, ended it for me. So did the Dark Lord. There was no time or room for Potter in my thoughts during my sixth year. He was replaced with fear and a sense of duty that I never wanted to do. My five-year fixation on him disappeared._

_I don’t blame Potter for never liking me, I never liked me either. _

_I disliked him for a lot of reasons, some petty and some more of a delusion to keep my anger going, but I never did hate him. I do, however, hate that even to this day I still bloody think of him whenever I cast a fucking spell. _

_My fixations have rarely been good ones. Part of me wonders if all of this is a fixation, if wanting to be a better person counts as one. I hope not. My fixations pass, they become a blur and a memory. They were never meant to last. I need what I’m doing to remain with me for the rest of my life. I want to be a good person, and I don’t want to lose that. _

_If I could, I’d get rid of the fixations. They did more harm than good anyway. I’ve searched many wizard stores, searched many wizard libraries and I’ve never found anything to help. There are no books on the issues that I have. Maybe I need to broaden my search. _

_Maybe there’s a solution in Muggle books. I think I’ll look for that the next time I buy from them. If I can stop even just a fraction of the mess in my head, then it’s worth it. I think a lot of things lately are worth it. _

_I think that shows that I’m learning. _

_I never did find that wonder I wanted, never did feel the awe of magic. After everything that’s happened to me and everything I’ve done to others, perhaps I’m not meant to. Perhaps wonder is something I was never supposed to have. _

_There’s a part of me, the part that was a little boy in a robe shop who was enamoured with someone else’s charisma, who can’t help but hope that I’ll find that wonder when I find the person I know I can be. If it can happen to those who are good, then will it happen to me too?_

_Or is it just a fixation I’ll never be able to shake?_

_I can’t tell anymore. _

**—Draco**

* * *

_Oh. _Oh no.

Harry ran a hand under his glasses and covered his face. That certainly hadn’t been expected. He looked at the portrait who was watching him curiously. Luna’s warning was a distant memory the longer he stared. He wasn’t sure what silent paintings truly meant, but he didn’t think Malfoy’s was bad.

“We have vastly different memories of the first time we met.”

Painting-Malfoy’s eyes closed, and his shoulders slumped. As if he knew exactly what Harry had read.

“You reminded me a lot of my cousin, well, sort of. If he had been a wizard, he’d have fit right in with the rest of those who think like Malfoy used to.”

The painting winced and so did Harry. He truly didn’t have any good memories of Malfoy, and it was startling to see the same event through the eyes of someone else.

“If you had shown me that boy,” Harry pointed towards the journal. “The one who wanted to be my friend before ever knowing who I was, I would have let you.”

A visible deep breath was the only response. He wanted to know what Malfoy would think. How closely related were the painting’s emotions compared to the real person?

“At least we would have been until you started acting the way you did. I don’t think we were ever supposed to be friends. It would have been… interesting if we had been though.” He couldn’t help but wonder what some of his late-night adventures would have been like with another person added into the mix.

“But we both know that you weren’t ready to change back then. I don’t think it was attainable at that time.”

Painting-Malfoy shrugged, not looking at him.

“Now though? I’d really like to meet this Malfoy. I’d really like to talk to him. I’d like to spend time with him, and I certainly want to be his friend.”

When Painting-Malfoy finally looked up, Harry wasn’t surprised to see a somewhat wary look. Their friendship hadn’t been possible before, but the idea of it in any capacity might seem outlandish to the portrait.

“When I met you, I felt inadequate.”

Painting-Malfoy frowned, and it was reassuring in a way to know that Malfoy hadn’t felt the same.

“You looked at me and saw wonder, and while I did find awe in magic, I didn’t know what it was. I was so clueless and felt so out of place. And then I came across a boy who knew _so _much but talked down about the very people I was like. I felt that maybe my own knowledge wouldn’t be enough, that maybe I wasn’t enough. I used to think that it was all a fantasy, that one day I’d wake up back in the fucking cupboard and it would have been just a dream.”

Harry let out a rough exhale. He had never told anyone that. Childhood worries seemed silly now, but back then he had been so afraid that it would have been taken away in a blink of an eye.

“Sometimes, when I’m at my happiest, I worry that it’s still a dream. That I’m not supposed to have this life. That maybe I’ll always be the boy stuck in a cupboard under the stairs.”

He looked up at the ceiling as his eyes stung. Harry didn’t want to see the portrait’s reaction. Emotional baggage never did seem to go away.

“I think part of the wonder you saw, was because in the back of my mind I thought it would get taken away. I wanted to appreciate it all before that happened,” Harry shrugged. “I don’t think that it’s connected to being a good person.”

When he did look, Painting-Malfoy seemed confused. It was sad in a way.

“Some of the worst people have everything they want in life. I’m not trying to be rude but look at your dad.” There was a slight glare and Harry snorted. “We both know he’s never been what anyone would classify as a good person, but he had every advantage in life that he wanted. There is no set of benefits that good people have that differ from those who aren’t.”

Painting-Malfoy pointed at himself, but Harry wasn’t sure what that was supposed to lead into. He pushed away from the desk to get closer.

“You?”

Rolled eyes and pinched brows was not an attractive look, and Harry wanted to say that too. “How am I supposed to know what you mean?”

The pointed finger followed the same path but this time, it also pointed at Harry.

“You want to be like me?”

Painting-Malfoy’s lips curled, and Harry was offended. “Is it still about the wonder?”

Relief was all he felt when he got a nod. Fuck, he hated trying to communicate to the stupid thing. “Are you asking me if I think you can find the wonder?”

There were no gestures as a response, but his eyes were filled with emotion.

Harry smiled softly. “I think that the wonder will come when you stop looking for it. When you stop expecting it to happen solely because you want it.”

A visible scoff had him snorting. “I know that sounds like I’m humouring you, but I’m not. If you keep expecting wonder without putting in the effort, you’ll always be disappointed.”

Painting-Malfoy folded his arms and lifted his nose in the air.

“I’m not implying that you are lazy or that you just wanted what you couldn’t have. You said in the journal that you took magic for granted. But my question is did you ever stop? Once aware, did you take the time to appreciate it? Or look deeper? Or did you just expect it because you wanted it?”

Arms fell limply and Harry felt like he was making some headway. A lot of it was confusing to him. He didn’t see the same fascination that Malfoy did. He had never thought his enthusiasm was something anyone would want to covet.

“In the journal, it said Malfoy was enamoured with my charisma,” Harry began, grinning when there was a light blush on pale cheeks. “I wonder if it’s ironic that I’m enamoured with who he is now.”

Painting-Malfoy ducked his head down, and Harry wished he wouldn’t, it would have been nice to see the blush grow.

Harry reached a hand up, intending to touch the corner that Painting-Malfoy always touched. He jerked back when Painting-Malfoy shook his head rapidly and raised his hands back and forth.

“You don’t want me to touch it?”

The hands never stopped moving, and neither did his head.

“Is it because you’re a silent painting?”

There was a moment when everything froze. Harry’s next inhale seemed to stop just as Painting-Malfoy did as well.

“Luna told me that silent paintings are a bad omen. Is that true?” One jerky nod was all he got in return. “Are you a bad omen?”

Painting-Malfoy shook his head slowly, but his face was sad, and Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that.

The sound of someone knocking on the front door startled them both.

“That would be the expert I asked to stop by.” Narrowed eyes had his lips twitching. “I’m aware that the place isn’t mine. It’s about the case, okay?”

When Harry opened the door, he was a put off by the man on the porch who was fidgeting and wouldn’t look at him.

“Are you Spencer Shrew? The art appraisal specialist?”

“Yes,” Shrew nodded as he clutched a giant bag to his chest and peered behind Harry nervously. “You said you had a—a—”

“Silent painting,” Harry said, eyebrows arched. Merlin, one would think Shrew was worried the painting would kill him.

“Yes, that.”

Harry stepped aside to let him in. He would have made small talk and asked Shrew about his day, but he didn’t think that would be appreciated, not with the way Shrew looked ready to bolt.

“This is the office,” Harry waited for Shrew to walk in but when he stood at the entrance, Harry had to nudge him through. “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

“You threatened to arrest me if I didn’t.”

Harry risked a glance at the portrait but had to look away when it was clear he was laughing. “I did not say that in so many words. Just emphasized the Art Act of 1912.” Refusing to paint on the basis of who the subject had been was illegal.

“That Act is old and outdated.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. I thank you anyway.”

Shrew said something under his breath, and it was probably better for the both of them that it wasn’t audible.

“I don’t need you to tell me how much the painting is worth, I doubt anyone would buy it.” He had to bite his lip when Painting-Malfoy flipped him the bird. “I just want you to tell me anything you can about the artist, or the painting itself.”

Shrew pulled out what looked like a pair of glasses but there was a smaller version on top of those and then another small version on top of that and it continued until the last pair was too tiny to see.

“Whoever gave Mister Malfoy the painting didn’t care about the stability of the piece,” Shrew said with a frown on his face. “The frame is cheap, barely holding it together, the gold is fake and any charms to protect the structure are missing.”

With the theory of it being left behind after Malfoy was taken, that would make sense. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to spend money on it, adding insult to injury.

“And what about the painting itself? Is there anything that might hint at who could have painted it?”

Shrew took a step closer before moving his head inches, examining it slowly, far too slowly for Harry’s liking.

“Most artists will leave behind a visible seal showing that it had been registered with the Ministry. A lot of modern artists who are less… authentic like to leave behind a signature of sorts. It’s rarely visible to the naked eye but other less authentic artists can spot the handiwork.”

“I don’t see a seal,” Harry said slowly. He tried to remember if any of the portraits at Hogwarts had seals on them, he had never paid attention.

“There isn’t,” Shrew said, tone annoyed. “There also is no signature, no pattern that I recognize, no clues, there’s nothing.”

“Is that unusual?”

Shrew nodded and the glasses slipped down his nose a little. “Artists _want _their work to be recognized not just seen. The lack of a signature is odd.”

“Even if it’s a silent painting?”

“Even then.”

Of course that would happen, of course it would. “Is there anything you can tell me about the artist? Things you can tell from just looking?”

Shrew said nothing as he continued to examine the portrait. “They knew what they were doing.”

“How so?”

“Where there should be stasis charms keeping the painting at certain temperatures, there are spells to do the opposite.”

“I’m going to need you to be a lot more specific.”

“There are curses woven into the canvas to ensure that the shelf-life of the painting won’t last long. It’s decaying. I’d say a year at most is left.”

_What?_ Harry looked up and there was a resigned sadness in Painting-Malfoy’s face. As if he had already accepted defeat.

“Is there a way to make a silent painting talk?”

“Unfortunately, no. Silent paintings are already incomplete but add in the curses that get applied, it would do more harm to try. A lot of times there are fail-safes embedded to react to other spells. I worry that it would accelerate the decay.”

“Fuck.” Harry clenched his fists tightly and closed his eyes. He was truly running out of options. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“They’re a good artist. The strokes are hard to find, the portrait is so wizard-like.”

“I imagine so,” Harry said with a frown. “All portraits are.”

“Obviously.”

Then why say it? Harry opened his mouth to say just that, but Shrew continued talking.

“The artist captured a lot more than most do. It’s great art.”

“But that doesn’t help me.”

Shrew stood up as he removed the stupid glasses. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more, Mister Potter.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. “I’ll keep trying.”

“If it makes you feel any better, once this one decays, you can have another made that isn’t silent.”

No, that didn’t make feel any better. “Malfoy is missing, the painting is all that’s left.”

Shrew grimaced. “I’ll just see myself out then.”

Harry glared at his back, wishing he could hex him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered as he looked back at the portrait. “I’m trying so hard, but I keep finding dead-ends.”

A hand was placed up against the canvas and Harry’s throat tightened. He wished he could place his own there too.

“I’m going to find him.”

When he got a shake of a head in reply, his eyes clenched tightly. Harry could handle the Aurors thinking Malfoy had run away, he could handle Luna thinking Malfoy wasn’t alive, he could handle Ron thinking the case was a lost cause, but he couldn’t handle Painting-Malfoy giving up too.

“Please don’t give up on me.”

_Please._

* * *

**Sunday, **

_I ran of things to read, but I’m not surprised, and I think anyone who knows me wouldn’t be surprised either. I didn’t feel like leaving the flat, today I just feel distracted. My head is clouded, and I just don’t want to do anything. _

_So, I ransacked the place looking for any books I might not have read. I found a Muggle book that Pansy gave me last year knowing I’d never read it—I think it was supposed to be a joke. But the desperate take anything, don’t they? _

_Relaxation. That’s not something I’ve ever done but I read about it today. It’s ironic that I’ve read so many books on what emotions do to the body, but I never thought about how beneficial something like relaxation can do. _

_It sounds like common sense but relaxing was always what other people did. I didn’t have time to relax growing up, I had to follow my father’s strict study regimen. I didn’t have time to relax at Hogwarts, I had to maintain impossible standards just to please him. I didn’t have time to relax during summer holiday, I had to learn how to be a ‘proper’ Malfoy heir. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. _

_Relaxing was a fantasy, in a way. I’d think of what it would be like to sleep half the day away and do nothing. I’d think of what it would be like to leave the house for fun and not duty. I’d think of what it would be like to be with my friends and it not be a social gathering for our parents. Other people got to relax, not me. _

_Now, though? I thought that maybe I was relaxing. I read whenever I want, I sleep whenever I want, and I leave my flat whenever I want. But… I read because my mind won’t shut up. I sleep too much because being awake is harder. I rarely leave my flat, and when I do it’s because I can’t physically survive if I don’t get sustenance. _

_That’s not relaxing. That’s not healthy. _

_I think I’ve always known that, but I didn’t quite realize the severity until I learned about relaxation. Maybe Pansy was onto something._

_When one relaxes, it decreases stress, anxiety, depression, insomnia, and pain while it also increases energy, confidence, calmness, better sleep patterns and improves coping abilities. _

_That’s a long list of shit I could use. Especially the ability to cope. Can relaxation really do that? Part of me says no, but the petty side wants to prove the book wrong. Perhaps that’s the trap in it. I trick myself into relaxing. At least Greg would be happy. _

_The book was more general than I’d have liked. One of the examples of relaxation was breathing control. Only, it didn’t tell me how to do that. Do I just sit with my eyes closed and breathe? I can do that, but my mind is just a mess and that always leaves me feeling tense. _

_Muggles are interesting. Sometimes they do something, and it reminds me of things wizards do, just in a different way. For example, meditation was something the book listed. The more I read about it, the more I realized it was the Muggle version of Occlumency—mostly. _

_Meditation encourages body awareness and bringing about a sense of peace. Both are required when learning to protect the mind. You can’t protect what you aren’t aware of. I wonder if I could combine the two. I can clear my mind with Occlumency while meditating. This one, I can get behind. This one, I can do. _

_I made the mistake of trying one of the examples before really researching it. Yoga. It sounded interesting. It combines breathing control, intricate postures and relaxes the mind. Only, it didn’t say it would lead to pulled muscles. I don’t know how Muggles do that shit. Maybe only the fit do? Quidditch didn’t prepare for that. _

_Another thing listed that reminded me of our world was hypnosis. It said hypnosis is to tune out distractions by having someone else repeat suggestions that the mind listens to and does so subconsciously. I’ve been on the end of many Imperius curses, no thanks. I don’t need the Muggle version. The book did say licensed professionals administer them, but that’s not any better. No way no how would I let my Mind Healer Imperius me. _

_The last example of relaxation was visualization. I’m still having trouble with the visualization step in change, and now I have to do it here too? At least with this one, it’s less daunting. I’m supposed to visualize peaceful settings, places I might want to go, things I might want to do and then combine them with physical sensations. Not just see a peaceful setting, but also what that would feel like, the more details the better. That’s simple, it’s just a fantasy in a way. _

_While trying to be a better person, I’ve been stressed and worried about the results and the path to getting them. I think that maybe learning to relax is a small stone on that path. If I’m wanting to improve the things that affect me physically and mentally, then why not learn to relax? Why not do all that I can?_

_There is a sense of guilt when I think of relaxing. That time could be spent doing something else, researching something else. But I found that a lot of people feel the same. The book mentioned that in multiple studies, over half the people felt guilty for even thinking about relaxing. I wonder why that is? Do humans have the urge to keep going? Or is it a social message? Knowing that others felt the same, makes it easier to push the guilt aside. _

_I don’t know if I can fully learn to relax, but I’ll try. Except yoga, I’m not doing that again. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn things about myself while getting in tune with my body enough to let everything go and relax. _

_It’s a balance. I can’t be on the go and not pause every now and again. I don’t want to burnout, I don’t want to try so hard to be a good person that I push too much and end up resenting anything. _

_It’s a good step, and I think I’ll tell my Mind Healer about it. See if there are any wizard relaxation methods she would recommend. And maybe I can tell her about my steps on change. I think she’d be proud, or at least I hope so. _

_Proud. I wonder what that’s like. I don’t think anyone has ever been proud of me. But if there’s one thing I have learned about all of this, is that it doesn’t matter about other people. This is my path, my journey. _

_So, I’ll be proud of me. Pride in myself matters more. _

_And I think I’m getting there. One step at a time. _

**—Draco**

* * *

Harry ignored the sound of his Floo. He just wanted to wallow on the floor and ignore all responsibilities.

“Harry!”

“Go away, Ron.”

He lifted his head and squinted. His glasses were somewhere on the table and all he could see was a blurry blob that might have been a floating head. “It’s illegal to bypass Floo security, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if you’d have answered.”

Typical Auror.

“What do you want?”

“What’s with you?” There was a concern in his tone, but Harry didn’t want that. He didn’t want anything. “The case not going as you thought?”

“No.”

“I did tell you—”

“Not now, Ron,” Harry clenched his teeth. “I don’t want to hear it.”

There was a sigh, but he didn’t want that either.

“Speaking of your case, I’ve gotten two complaints about you.”

“Tell them to fuck off.”

“As charming as that is, they are valid complaints.”

Harry sat up with a groan and glared at where he assumed Ron’s face was, hoping it wasn’t a large log.

“Did you really badger his Mind Healer?”

“I take offence to that,” Harry argued. “I asked her routine questions. Ones she refused to answer.”

“She’s in her right to ignore them, you know that.”

“Whatever.” Harry didn’t care about the complaint, it wasn’t as if he had broken any laws, so she could shove her attitude up her arse.

“Did you threaten to arrest an art appraiser?”

“Hey! That one was legit,” Harry said as he squinted further in an attempt to see how annoyed Ron was, but the more he stared he was pretty sure it _was _a log he was looking at.

“We both know the Art Act of 1912 had nothing to do with portraits _already _painted. The act was to counter discrimination against artists refusing to paint certain people.”

“He didn’t know that.”

“Harry.”

“What do you want from me? I won’t apologize.”

The long-suffering sigh was familiar, and he hadn’t realized he missed it until now. Strange that he had even missed Ron being annoyed with him.

“This isn’t like you.”

“How would _you_ know? You haven’t been around me in years.” He closed his eyes as he rubbed his forehead. “Sorry, I’m just—”

“Too close to the case.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Talk to me, Harry. What’s going on?”

Harry crawled closer to the fireplace. As he got near, he realized what he had thought was Ron had been a jar that wasn’t even near the fireplace. Merlin, he needed his glasses.

“I want to find him.”

“I got that,” Ron said, tone far softer than Harry wanted to hear. It was a tone used on people who were close to losing it.

Was he losing it?

“Why is Malfoy different than any other missing person?”

Harry picked at his socks, not wanting to meet Ron’s eyes—well, if he could even _see _them.

“I think—I think I care for him. In a non-professional way.”

The silence that followed did not bode well for him.

“How?” Ron demanded. “How could you care for him that way when he’s missing? What’s there to even get to know?”

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” whispered Harry, eyes still on his socks. “It’s his journal. The person in there is someone I want.” It didn’t matter in what capacity, he just wanted Malfoy found. 

“The person in there could very well be dead.”

Harry’s eyes filled with tears and he wished everyone would stop saying that. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands and shrugged, that’s all Ron would get out of him.

“Oh, _Harry_.”

“I have to find him. I know you don’t understand, but it’s something I need to do.”

There was more silence. That seemed to be a recurring theme lately. Silence and no answers.

“Do you want my help? I’ll take some time off work.”

The tears he had thought were gone came back. Fuck, he loved Ron.

“Please.”

“Can I come through?”

“You already broke the law,” Harry sniffed. “What’s it matter?”

Instead of answering, he heard a whoosh before Ron exited the fireplace. He moved to stand but Ron crouched down to wrap him in a hug.

“Do you want me to get Hermione? She’s better at comforting than me.”

“No,” Harry held on tighter. He loved Hermione but he needed Ron at the moment. “Just don’t judge me.”

“I won’t pretend to understand, but I won’t judge you. You know I wouldn’t.”

They sat there for a long time saying nothing. Harry’s mind was a mess, the case was a mess and he didn’t know how to fix either of them.

“What do you want me to help with?”

“Tomorrow, Lucius wants an update and I’m going to have to tell him that I have nothing. Not a single thing to offer.”

“Do you want me to do it instead?”

Yes. “No.” Lucius barely wanted him to do it, he didn’t think seeing Ron would help any. “Maybe you could look into silent paintings for me. I don’t know what I’m looking for when it comes to them.”

Ron froze, his hold on Harry tense. “Why would you need to look into that?”

Harry lifted his head to peer into Ron’s face. There was a weird look in his eyes. “The painting in Malfoy’s office is a silent painting.”

_“What?” _The raised tone with a touch of hysteria had Harry wanting to back away.

“Didn’t Coil put that in his report?”

_“No,”_ Ron said slowly. “If he had, it would have taken top priority. A silent painting nearly always ends in someone’s death. That would have changed the whole direction of the case.”

Harry still had a hard time understanding what was so bad about a silent painting. Wizards were very superstitious.

“Do you think he didn’t know?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said, eyes narrowing. “But I’m going to find out tomorrow and then I’m going to take a look at the painting.”

“Be nice to him.” Painting-Malfoy might be a bastard, rude, and too snarky for his own good, but he was also vulnerable and sort of kind—maybe.

Ron’s head jerked back before he snorted. “You are too far gone.”

“Maybe.”

Probably.

_Yes._

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun for me. I do love whenever Painting-Malfoy and Harry interact. It's challenging in a way, to show his character silently, but I always did love a challenge. Ngl, I totally teared up when Harry was talking with Ron and he offered to help. Whew, the waterworks came out. (I cry easily) Also, I can't see shit without my glasses either, so I felt like I bonded with his character. (or it was all self-projection, who knows) Also! I like Harry skirting the truth a bit to get what he wants.
> 
> I have read so many of y'all's theories and I'm so curious if they are the same as before or if they've changed any since the last chapter. I can't confirm or deny any theories, but it is fun to see what the guesses are. I'll answer any past comments when I wake and any new ones as well! 
> 
> Hopefully, y'all enjoyed this update, and I will see you again next week!
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


	9. Change is Nothing and Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not my usual time for posting but I slept through the time I normally would have and figured to just go with it. I do hope y'all enjoy this, and don't worry there is one more chapter after this.

**Wednesday, **

_Today… today was weird. It started about the same as any other. I still didn’t want to get up, I still read too many books, I still hated leaving the house. But it was good. I wasn’t happy but I was content. Not just with my emotions, but with the path I’m on. The more aware I am of my emotions, my body and my mental health, the better I do. _

_Relaxing is still a challenge, but it’s helped. I don’t quite have all the things the book mentioned, but the benefits I have noticed are worth it. The less stress or tense I am, the easier it is to tackle the real issues. It makes all of this seem less daunting. _

_I went into my day feeling more optimistic than I have in a long time. At least I was until I went to my Mind Healer. She’s nice enough, and I think she’s decent at what she does, but each lesson I have, I feel like we aren’t a good match. I’m supposed to want to open up to her, right? But I don’t. I know that sometimes therapy can be a series of Healers, that I can keep trying until I find the one that suits me best. I stuck through all of her sessions because I didn’t care. _

_Well, I did, but not enough to change anything. I think I was just going through the motions and wanted a routine. So I kept going, but it’s not doing anything for me. When I first realized that, I thought maybe I was projecting, maybe I didn’t want to go and was making excuses. And part of me thinks that might be a possibility, but I don’t think so. _

_I can’t deny that she has helped me, but there came a point when that help plateaued. I’ve known all along that she didn’t want to talk about the war, and I still understand that. But since when is therapy about she wants? I need to talk about it. I can’t keep wanting to change who I am but not be able to recognize that part of my life. I can’t ignore pieces of who I am—whether it was the past or not. _

_When she asked me about change, and if I did any of the things she recommended, I told her that I looked into it myself. That I researched change and that I’ve been on a journey to discovering how to be a better person. She was silent for a long time. Enough to make me worry I had messed up on the delivery, even though I had practiced what to say. _

_She asked me if I was prepared to talk about the people I had directly affected. It was my turn to go silent. The idea scares me, but I know it has to be done. So I told her that. I told her that I not only want to talk about them, but that I wanted to talk to them personally as well. All I can offer is apologies and I know they don’t have to be met with understanding. I get that there will be several people who don’t even want to see me let alone hear what I have to say. And that’s okay, I’m prepared for that. _

_I thought it was progress, I thought that what I was saying was improvement, but I was told it wasn’t. I’m confused and a little hurt. I’ve spent so many months working up to this, getting the courage to even talk about it and she said it wasn’t a good idea. _

_How is it not a good idea? How is learning to be a better person a bad idea?_

_I feel discouraged and un-listened to. I think if the me from 5 months ago had had the conversation with her, I might have quit. I might have given up completely. But current me is pissed. Current me is not going to do that. Current me is going to keep going. I’m going to keep trying because I know with every fibre of my being that I am doing what I need to. _

_So, I think it’s time to find a new Mind Healer. There’s a small part of me that thinks I don’t need one at all but that’s not a good idea. That would set me back in the long run. I’m not at a place where I can go it alone. I might always need a Mind Healer, and that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just have to find one that understands what I’m trying to accomplish. I’m still grateful for the lessons I did have with her, but I probably wouldn’t recommend her to anyone. _

_Today was my last session. She doesn’t know that, but I really don’t want to sit through an awkward session after telling her I want someone else. I wonder if it would be rude to send a letter. Maybe I could just Floo? That way it’s a good middle ground. Not in person but also not an impersonal letter. _

_I already have a new place in mind. They have a pamphlet that I’ve seen passed around but always ignored. It mentions the war directly, and how they can help those who fought regardless of which side. That’s what I need. _

_Despite the weirdness of the day, I still feel optimistic. Perhaps less than before, but I know I’m still on the right track. I actually feel good about making an appointment, I think it’s what needs to happen._

_I wonder if my new Mind Healer will want me to keep a journal too. I only have a few pages left. I can keep going until I make the appointment and see what they say. I kind of like writing down my thoughts. It’s not as freeing as if I was saying this to someone, but it is freeing enough that it is an outlet. _

_Maybe I’ll always have a journal. I wouldn’t mind that. _

_As long as no one reads it._

**—Draco **

* * *

Malfoy Manor was just as ugly as it was last time. Harry knocked on the door wishing he didn’t have to be there.

When the door opened, Harry’s eyes were already on the ground, where he expected a house-elf to be. He startled when it wasn’t.

“Mister Potter.”

“Lucius.”

Had Lucius ever answered the door before?

“Thank you for stopping by. My wife wanted to Floo for an update, but I’ve never trusted Floo.”

“I wonder why that is,” Harry mumbled quietly, but not enough to avoid a glare.

His shoulders slumped at the sight of the damn hallway filled with portraits of past Malfoy generations. They immediately started yelling at not only him but Lucius as well. It would seem they liked no one.

“I don’t like them,” Harry growled when Abraxas Malfoy called him a good for nothing beggar.

Lucius let out a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. “Neither did Draco.”

When they reached the study and sat down, Harry looked down at his hands, not wanting to talk. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Lucius that he had nothing.

“Has there been progress?”

“Yes,” Harry said, not quite sure if that was a lie. “I’ve learned a lot of things about your son and his life.”

When he glanced up, there was a slight frown on Lucius’ face, and that was a lot more emotion than he expected.

“Can you elaborate?”

Harry’s knee bounced up and down as he debated his options. He didn’t want to talk about the journal. The thoughts in there had been private, thoughts that he himself shouldn’t have read.

“Your son had a personal journey that he was seeking,” Harry said. “He wanted to be a better person.”

“Better?” Lucius’ eyes narrowed and Harry raised his hands in response.

“I’d explain more but I don’t think he was ready for you to know.”

Lucius’ hands clenched briefly. “And you would know this how?”

“Your son left a journal behind. I finished the last entry this morning.”

“A journal,” Lucius whispered as he stared off into the distance. “I imagine there wasn’t anything good said about me in there.”

Harry said nothing, he didn’t want to make it more awkward than it already was. He could agree with Lucius but then what? Lying and denying didn’t seem like the right thing to do either.

“I talked to his friends,” Harry continued somewhat nervously. “They offered information on his character, but they didn’t have anything substantial for the investigation outside of their personal belief that he didn’t run away.”

The narrowed eyes returned, and Harry had to look away. “Go on.”

“I talked to his Mind Healer, she had nothing either.”

“Are you trying to tell me you know _nothing_? After all this time?”

Harry looked at the ceiling as he took a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

Lucius leaned forward, hair falling past his shoulders and an anger that Harry was all too familiar with was prominent on his face. “Either explain or leave, Potter. I don’t have time for this.”

“I—” He could tell Lucius that he was at a dead-end, that there was no one left to talk to, no one left to go to, but that sounded like defeat. Harry didn’t want to do that.

Instead of owning up to Lucius’ suspicions, Harry asked the one thing he had been itching to know. “Would your son ever get a portrait?”

Lucius jerked back in his chair. “No.”

“Can I ask why that is?”

There was a long silence as Lucius’ fingers clenched rapidly. “How is it relevant?”

“Your son has a self-portrait on his mantle.”

Lucius froze, mouth parted slightly before he shook his head. “He wouldn’t get one. That makes no sense.”

“Why?”

“I might not know much about my son’s current life, but I do know of his life growing up, and he’d never get a portrait of any kind.”

Before Harry could ask, Lucius took a deep breath and said, “Do you know how many rooms are in the Manor?”

Harry frowned wondering what on Earth that had to do with anything.

“No.”

“Thirty.”

Good Lord, why? Who needed that much space?

“A lot of them are unused,” Lucius said, his fingers still moving. “The house-elves would clean them on rotations a few times a year, but not enough.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Draco was six when he tried to play with a house elf. He hid in one of the empty rooms waiting for them to find him. Only the room had a Boggart.”

Six? It had been scary facing one at thirteen. He wondered what a Boggart would have been for him at that age. Probably the Dursleys. 

“Do you know where my son’s room was?”

As Harry shook his head, Lucius pointed to a door across from the study, on the other side of the hallway.

The hallway.

Harry frowned as threads of ideas began to merge. “He had to walk down that hallway every day, didn’t he?”

Lucius gave a jerky nod but remained silent.

“He’s afraid of paintings,” Harry whispered. He had only experienced the portraits twice, he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like as a child. The yelling, the insults, the swearing. It would have been traumatizing.

“If there are so many empty rooms, why didn’t he switch to one of them?”

When Lucius wouldn’t look at him, Harry narrowed his eyes. “You made him stay there.”

“That was my room as a child as well.”

“So what? Because you had to suffer through it you made your son suffer as well?”

“Character building.”

“Character building my arse,” Harry scoffed. He could feel his magic swirling the angrier he got. “You _knew _his worst fear was them and you made him face it every single day.”

What the fuck was wrong with him? What kind of father did that? If Lucius could be so callous over that, then what else had Malfoy suffered through? What other things did Lucius do to him for the sake of being the Malfoy heir? No wonder Malfoy didn’t want to forgive his parents. Some parents they were.

“It’s not your place to judge me.”

Harry wanted to hex him, but Lucius wasn’t wrong. Only Malfoy could judge him.

“Does my son really have a portrait?” Lucius asked, tone doubtful and hands folded on his lap.

“It’s a silent one.”

Lucius took a shaky breath as he raised an equally shaky hand. “What?”

“I think it was left on his mantle after your son went missing.”

Lucius’ eyes clenched and for the first time, his face contorted into pain. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispered, and the admission cost him. Not just in pride but it felt like it took a piece of his heart too. “His journal mentioned that his Mind Healer suggested a painting. I had an art appraiser look—”

“His healer?” Lucius sat up straighter. “Why would they suggest a painting? Surely, they knew he was afraid of them.”

Harry’s forehead wrinkled as he thought back to the journal. It _had _mentioned that Malfoy didn’t understand why she’d have suggested it either. Malfoy had mentioned his first session with her. Had he told her about it? If so, what purpose would a portrait do other than cause Malfoy stress?

“Mind Healer Hold was rude, but I have a hard time seeing her ask him to get something he was afraid of.” Unless it was to try and get him to get past the fear, but wouldn’t she have said that?

“Hold?” Lucius stood up and moved in a line, it was close to pacing but less dramatic. “As in the last surviving heir of the Hold line?”

“I have no idea,” Harry said as his hands moved in emphasis.

“The same Hold who lost a sister in the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

Harry’s breath left him in a whoosh as he recalled a photo of a little girl in her office. The office that was devoid of anything _but _that photo.

Harry stood up and moved toward the fireplace. “His last journal entry mentioned that he wanted to quit going to her. It said she didn’t understand about his need to change and talk to those he has hurt in the past.”

His hand reached to grab hold of Floo powder before he remembered a smidgen of his manners. “Can I?”

Lucius gestured him forward impatiently.

“Auror Ronald Weasley’s Office.”

“Harry. I was just about to try and find you. How did seeing Malfoy’s father go?”

“Ron, can you pull any records you have on Malfoy’s Mind Healer?”

“Hold? I’m not supposed to,” Ron said, and Harry could hear a file cabinet open. “But I’ll do it. I just have to find it.”

Harry sat impatiently as Ron began to swear as more files were open.

“Speaking of Hold, I stopped by her office today.”

“Why?” Harry asked sharply.

“I had to apologize on your behalf, she wanted to make a complaint to the Wizengamot.”

Well, she could fuck herself.

“I think I’ve got it, wait, no that’s not it,” Ron mumbled.

“Can you hurry up?” Lucius demanded and Harry watched Ron’s head jerk in the fireplace.

“What—”

“Ron,” Harry said slowly. “We need you to find those records.”

“Okay,” Ron reassured. “While I was there, I asked her some questions since she had talked to us once before. I mentioned the painting—”

“You what?” Harry’s fingers dug into his knees. “What did you say?”

“I just mentioned that we had the painting appraised, wanted to know if she knew anything about it—_oh here it is_—and that the painting had helped in giving us information.”

“Fuck.” Harry had a bad feeling.

“What did you want to know in her file?”

“What did she do before becoming a Mind Healer?”

Ron made a humming noise as he flipped through pages. “It looks like she had registered to be a Healer’s assistant before switching careers. Worked for St. Mungos for a few years.”

St. Mungos. Harry slammed his hand against the ground. A Healer’s assistant would know how to apply a buffer.

“Ron, I need you to send a team of Aurors to her office. I’ve got to check on the painting.”

“You think—”

“No, I _know_.”

There was a brief moment of silence as Ron looked at him closely. “Alright, but I’m going to meet you there, okay? I won’t take long.”

As soon as the Firecall ended, Harry ran out of the room barely offering Lucius a goodbye, he ignored the screaming portraits and rushed outside so he could apparate.

When Harry arrived outside of Malfoy’s flat, he froze at the hum of energy signalling a ward. He scoffed at the strength of it—weak, useless. A ward like that wouldn’t have been able to keep out pre-teen Fred and George let alone stop a grown arse adult with an ounce of offensive magic. 

The ward was destroyed with a flick of his wand. As quietly as he could, Harry opened the door and walked toward the office. He could hear muffled voices—well, one voice.

—on’t ask again.”

When Harry stepped into the doorway, he took in the destroyed room; the chair was knocked over, bookshelves smashed to the ground, books torn and haphazardly thrown around.

With a raised wand, he walked fully into the room prepared for anything.

Only…

“You make the slightest movement, and I’ll throw it in the fire.”

Hold stood next to the fireplace one hand holding the portrait that was halfway in the fire already. The flames licked the frame and Harry’s breath caught.

Painting-Malfoy looked to be already in pain, eyes on Harry but resigned, as if he was still giving up.

“Why?” Harry asked, eyes flickering to Hold briefly. “Why would you harm a client? What did Malfoy ever do to you?”

A hysterical but emotional laugh filled the room and he was worried for her Mental Health. She looked a breath away from losing it.

“What did he do?” Hold repeated, brows raised and tone incredulous. “He killed my sister!”

Harry glanced towards the portrait in time to see Painting-Malfoy shake his head rapidly.

“You mean the Death Eaters did, don’t you? Not Malfoy.”

“He was one of them!” Hold cried, hand slipping slightly as more of the portrait went into the fire, and he had to resist the urge to leap forward.

“You can’t blame all of them for the actions of a single member,” Harry said, eyes back on the portrait. He wasn’t sure how to restrain her and get the painting at the same time.

“She was thirteen.” There were tears in her eyes and Harry felt for her, he did. “She died trying to escape. Part of the castle had been blown apart and it fell on her.”

When tears slid down her cheeks, he felt his own eyes sting.

“I can’t imagine what you went through,” Harry said, free hand held in the air. “I lost people close to me, friends and those I considered family. But I don’t have siblings, so I don’t know what that’s like.”

“She took a piece of me when she died.”

Harry let out a rough exhale when Hold let out a sob. That’s how he had felt when Sirius died. There were no words of comfort that would work. He had never gotten that piece back, had to learn to live without it.

“That’s not his fault,” Harry whispered as he wiped his eyes. “Malfoy has done a lot of things that he’s not proud of, but he’s aware of them and is trying to make amends. You can’t pin her death on him, that’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” Hold shook her head as her grip on her wand tightened. “You’re trying to lecture me on what’s fair? He chose to be a _Death Eater _and is _alive_ while innocent people died. _That’s_ not fair!”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Harry argued. He understood where she was coming from but nothing in life was ever that black and white. “If you want to blame someone, then blame Voldemort. He’s the one who was responsible. He’s the one who took the lives of hundreds of innocent people. He’s the one who ordered the attack on the school.”

“That’s too easy,” Hold snarled. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He doesn’t get to feel any repercussions or face any consequences—but Malfoy can.”

“Blame Malfoy for the things he has done and not based on the level of your grief. He’s not responsible for her death, you _have_ to know this.”

“He should have to answer for his crimes.”

“And he _did_,” Harry threw his free hand in the air. “He was tried by the Wizengamot! It’s not up to you to be his executioner.”

When Hold moved closer to the fireplace Harry took a step forward before she raised her wand again. “I said don’t move!”

Harry tried to think of what he could say as he waited for Ron to show up. He could take Hold out easily, but he couldn’t catch the painting at the same time. As his mind cycled through arguments, he froze when her words registered.

“You said that he should have to answer for his crimes. That’s not past tense.”

Hold’s head titled sideways as her forehead wrinkled before smoothing out. “You thought I killed him.”

“I had hoped he was alive.”

“He is. For now.”

Harry’s sympathy for Hold dwindled the longer they talked.

“At least until the curse kills him,” Hold said with a small smile, one that made his stomach churn.

Curse? What curse?

“You don’t have much longer left,” Hold cooed, lips curled into a sneer as she lifted the portrait a few inches. “Do you?”

Harry’s mind blanked and he felt as if his entire world had been spun on its axis. _What?_

When he looked at the portrait and met sad silver eyes, his next inhale was shaky. A hand was pressed against the canvas as if Malfoy was reaching out to him. Harry’s eyes closed as he felt too many emotions. Relief, anger, regret, fear.

How many months had he spent looking for Malfoy for him to be in the same fucking room?

Part of him wanted to freak out. Malfoy had watched him read his journal. He was so screwed. But the rest of him knew that now wasn’t the time. Malfoy needed him.

“Why a painting?” Harry asked as he tried to think through his options. “Why trap him as a portrait? A silent one at that.”

“All I have of my sister is paintings and photos,” Hold said through clenched teeth. “That’s what her life was reduced to after she was gone. I wanted him to suffer in the prison they created, the nightmare of surviving when others didn’t. A Death Eater is a bad omen if I’ve ever heard of one. Why not make it a reality? Him being afraid of paintings was just icing on the cake.”

“Not everyone gets a portrait of their loved ones,” Harry said, wishing that he could’ve had one of Sirius. No one was lucky in their situation but at least Hold that, at least she had a portrait of her sister to talk to. He would give _anything _to have one of Sirius.

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” snarled Hold as a spark shot out of her wand. It was simple accidental magic, but it showed her instability. “Am I supposed to be happy that that’s what I get of her? She should be here! She should have been able to grow up, to graduate, to fall in love, to live her life!”

“You’re right,” Harry said slowly, and his words had her wand lowering a few inches. “She should be here. And the ones responsible deserve to be punished, but that’s not Malfoy. Hurting him doesn’t make up for the injustice. All it does is cause the cycle to continue.”

For the first time since he had arrived, Hold looked wary. “Cycle?”

“If you think for even a moment that Lucius Malfoy is going to let you walk out of here alive if you kill his son, then you’re in for a hell of a surprise.”

Hold looked away as her fingers clenched. “We both know I’m not walking out of here a free woman. What’s it matter if I kill him if I’m going to be arrested regardless?”

That wasn’t good. If that was her mindset, then she had nothing to lose—people like that were dangerous, the most reckless. He racked his brain hoping to come up with something to keep the conversation going long enough for backup.

“Why did you take him on as a client?” Harry asked, hoping it didn’t sound like he was blurting it out nervously. “If you despised him so much, why bother?”

Hold’s brows furrowed as she looked down at Malfoy. “I thought I could handle it, that it would be healing in a way. Malfoy was so broken, he wasn’t a threat—it was easy to see past his titles, his surname and everything else.”

“What changed? You had been his Mind Healer for so long.”

“He wanted to make amends with people he had wronged.”

Harry shook his head, not understanding at all. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“No,” Hold said, voice way too loud in the silence of the room. “If he makes amends then he’s moving on. It’s not fair that he gets to move on while I’m stuck with the ghost of my sister. Fuck that—fuck him.”

The logic didn’t make sense for a Mind Healer. Surely, she could hear herself, right? Do Mind Healers not have a Mind Healer for themselves? Because she clearly needed help, needed someone to talk to. Her grief had blinded her to reality. 

Harry thought about reiterating the fact that it wasn’t Malfoy’s fault, that he wasn’t the one who killed her sister. But there was no point. Hold clearly didn’t care, just wanted revenge and it didn’t matter who she got as long as they had been a Death Eater.

With nothing left to talk about, nothing left to drag on in the hopes of waiting for Ron, Harry knew he’d have to do something. The only question was what? If he lunged for Malfoy, then it would leave him vulnerable to an attack. If he attacked her, she could throw the portrait in the fire.

“You know I can’t let you continue,” Harry said as he turned his wrist and rotated his wand. “You know I won’t let you walk out of here free.”

“What are you going to do?” Hold asked as she moved the hand holding her wand in a wide gesture. His eyes narrowed in on the movement—that was his shot. “You going to—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish speaking. Harry cast a full body bind but didn’t stick around to watch her crash to the floor, he only heard it as he lunged for the painting.

Harry yelled as the fire along the edges of the frame burned his palm—it was excruciating but he couldn’t let go. The portrait was heavier than it looked, and he had to tuck his wand away to grasp it with both hands as he pulled hard enough to send him to the ground.

The smell of something burning had him struggling to put out the flames. When he sat up and caught sight of his trousers on fire, he yelled before batting at it. 

“Fuck,” Harry panted as he propped the portrait against the leg of Malfoy’s desk. He winced at the state of the painting. There were holes in the canvas, dangerously close to Malfoy who was visibly shaken.

“I’ve got you,” Harry whispered as he held up a hand to the painting but not touching. When Malfoy lifted his own hand, his heart clenched.

“How do I get you out of here?” He had never come across a curse like that before. Trapping bits of people in objects wasn’t a foreign concept, but trapping the whole body? That was unheard for him.

Malfoy pointed over Harry’s shoulder at where it looked like he was guessing where Hold’s body landed. Harry groaned as he stood up. He didn’t have the strength to pick up the painting again, so he dragged it on the ground behind him—ignoring Malfoy’s glare.

Hold had landed face down, and he winced a little. That had to hurt. He rolled her over before summoning ropes and tying her hands together.

“I’m going to release the body bind,” Harry said, watching the way Hold’s eyes tracked him, the only thing she could move. “And you’re going to tell me how to get him out of there.”

He made sure to magically stick her feet together as he took off the body bind. He didn’t trust the rope completely.

“Why should I tell you anything?” Hold spat as soon as she was able to speak.

Harry leaned forward enough to whisper despite that it carried around the room. “I can take the painting with me, and when I leave, Lucius can replace me.”

Hold’s eyes widened at the not-so-subtle threat. “You wouldn’t. You’re an Auror.”

“_That_,” Harry said, a slow smile stretching his lips. “Is where you are wrong. I don’t answer to the Ministry. I don’t answer to anyone.” 

Panic and fear were all he could register on her face as he continued. “I abide by my own morals, and I promise you, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Was it a lie? Harry wasn’t sure. If she wouldn’t speak to him, perhaps just seeing Lucius would get her talking. Would it be breaking some laws? Breaking Ministry guidelines? Yeah.

But when had he ever cared what the Ministry thought?

“I don’t know how to get him out,” Hold said in a rush when Harry made a dramatic show of getting up. “I got the canvas from Knockturn Alley.”

That wasn’t a surprise. Nothing good ever came out of Knockturn Alley. Harry glanced down at Malfoy as his mind wandered. His head tilted when Malfoy raised a hand, palm facing upward and used his other one to mime writing on it.

Oh, Merlin. He had never been good at charades.

Malfoy huffed before repeating the movements and then pointing at Hold.

“Did the canvas come with a note? Or a letter? Instructions? Had the seller said anything?”

“Just that once activated, someone had to always be inside it.”

Running feet sounded thunderous, and Harry knew it was Ron, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Malfoy. What did that mean? Someone had to always be inside it? Did that imply that it could be switched?

“Harry!” Ron panted as he came into the room and looked around wildly. “You have her immobile?”

Malfoy placed his hand in the same spot he had touched many times before, but this time there was a pointed look in his eyes.

Harry pointed at himself and watched Malfoy shake his head.

“Harry?”

Malfoy jerked his head towards Hold, and that was when Harry _understood_.

“Malfoy is inside the painting,” Harry said as he moved closer to Hold and brought the painting with him.

_“Blimey,”_ Ron said. “How do we get him out? We should take them both to the Ministry.”

No. That wasn’t going to happen.

“There’s no getting someone out once activated,” Harry said as he reached for one of Hold’s hands that were now struggling. “Unless, you switch who’s in it.”

“What are you doing?” Ron’s tone was stern, and Harry could clearly hear the Auror Chief in him. “We can study the painting and try and get more out of her. Surely, there’s a solution. I could ask Hermione to look into it.”

“If you want plausible deniability,” Harry began with a deep breath before moving Hold’s hand towards the spot that Malfoy’s was already placed. “Then I’d get out of here.”

“Harry—”

Harry slammed her hand against the portrait and gasped at the sheer energy that exploded outward in a swirling burst of wind. He had to cover his face with his free hand when the wind picked up things inside the room. It looked like a cyclone of some kind, and the portrait was at the centre of it.

Instead of the roped wrist that he had been holding, Harry felt something shift and he opened his eyes to see Malfoy in the spot Hold had been.

“It worked,” whispered Harry as everything stilled before he let go of the portrait altogether and ignoring the sound it made as it fell backwards. “Are you okay?”

Malfoy stared at him with wide eyes, knees on the ground and mouth parted.

Before Harry could truly process everything, Malfoy lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and held on tightly.

_“Thank you.” _

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.” The hours spent watching the portrait, the days poring over the journal and the weeks of tracking down leads—it had gotten him nowhere.

Malfoy shook his head, his hold tightening. “I didn’t expect to be found.” It was whispered so quietly that he wasn’t sure Ron could hear.

“I had given up.”

“I know,” Harry said with clenched eyes. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up on you.”

Malfoy leaned back to peer at Harry’s face. “You never give up. When I saw you enter my office, I had hoped you’d find me.”

“Then why give up?”

Malfoy’s hands slid down his chest and Harry grabbed hold of one of them, wanting to keep physical contact.

“I gave up for _you_,” Malfoy whispered, eyes on his hand trapped in Harry’s. “When someone refuses to give up, it just makes losing that much harder. I didn’t want to know what you looked like when you eventually realized it was a lost cause.”

“Don’t do that,” Harry argued. “Let me lose on my own, but don’t give up, never give up.”

There was an odd tilt to Malfoy’s lips as he turned Harry’s hand over before frowning. “You’re hurt.”

Despite the light touch, Harry hissed. “It’s just a burn.” Nothing a few salves couldn’t fix.

Malfoy raised Harry’s hand to his lips as they locked eyes. The moment they made contact; Harry felt a surge of magic wash over his hand.

When he looked down and saw his hand healing he couldn’t help but smile. “Show off.”

A sound Harry had never heard from Malfoy before had him glancing up again. Laughter. “Do it again.”

He didn’t get what he wanted, but he did, however, get a barely-there smile and that was a close second.

“I still can’t believe you were in the painting,” Harry shook his head. “The things I told you.” It was definitely embarrassing.

The smile turned into a familiar smirk but where it had once been associated with annoyance, Harry now found it attractive.

“Speaking of that,” Malfoy said as he narrowed his eyes before hitting Harry’s arm with his free hand. “You’re a right prat for reading my journal.”

Harry grimaced as he tried to lean away from the hand still hitting him. “Okay, I get it, I deserved that.” He ignored the ‘hell yeah you did’. “But I thought it could help me find you.”

“It didn’t!”

“No,” Harry argued. “I found what kind of person you are. I found you in ways I didn’t expect, not physically but I still found you—found _who _you are.

Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes as he looked down at his lap. “You see things in me that I don’t.”

Harry lowered his head until he could see Malfoy’s face. “You’ll see them eventually, and that’s what matters.”

“It’s great that you both can get along,” Ron said, making them both startle. “But my Aurors are arriving and they are going to want answers.” 

Malfoy stood up before offering a hand to Harry. He looked at it curiously. It was more than helping him up. It was symbolic—a chance at redoing something of their past.

There was a cautious look on Malfoy’s face when Harry looked up. He smiled slightly before reaching hold and letting himself be pulled up.

“You said—” Malfoy took a deep breath. “You said who I am now is someone you’d want to befriend. Is that still true?”

“I’d take you in any capacity, Malfoy.”

There was a dusting of pink that spread along Malfoy’s cheeks as he looked at the desk instead of at Harry, and it was just as pretty as before, only now it was in person.

Harry’s eyes followed Malfoy’s and noticed the mood globe. The white smoke had been replaced with a pretty teal.

“What does teal signify?”

The flush deepened and so did Harry’s amusement.

“Never you mind,” Malfoy said before covering the mood globe with his journal.

The sound of someone clearing their throat had them turning toward the door. Ron was no longer alone and was accompanied by Coil.

“Really Ron? _Him_ of all people?

Coil clenched his wand tightly, and Harry felt Malfoy reach for his hand—either in comfort or to hold him back. 

“Watch yourself, Potter.”

“How’s it feel?” Harry taunted. “How’s it feel to know that you botched a case so horribly? One that _I_ ended up solving.”

Coil took a step forward but stilled when Ron put a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off with a glare, but Ron only raised a brow.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Harry asked, eyes wide and tone filled with faux shock. “I’m not the innocent people you harm on the daily. I’m not going to just take your shit. You don’t scare me, nor have you ever come close. I see right through you, and Merlin it’s an ugly sight.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just stilted; it was uncomfortable. Coil’s glare narrowed further but he said nothing. It wasn’t until Malfoy snorted that Coil turned his wand on him.

Before Harry could decide if he was going to move in front of him, Malfoy moved his hand enough to intertwine their fingers.

“That’s enough,” Ron said, voice filled with authority. “Coil is here to get some questions and then he’ll be leaving.”

“But—” Coil was cut off.

“Leaving,” Ron said again, tone harsh.

Coil jerked away from Ron before he pulled out a notebook. “What happened here?”

Harry wanted to say nothing—it would serve him right—but there was a small squeeze of his hand from Malfoy and he caved.

“I talked to Lucius earlier,” It was Harry’s turn to squeeze Malfoy’s hand when he flinched at his father’s name. “And when I mentioned Hold, he said she was the last of the Hold line. And it got me thinking. I asked Ron to look into her previous job and it fit with some of my theories.”

Ron glared at him, but Harry was still annoyed with him for bringing Coil.

“When I came here, Hold had the portrait half in the fire. She admitted to what she did and that’s that.”

Coil brows furrowed as he wrote his notes. “How did he get out of the painting? How did their positions reverse?”

Harry looked at Malfoy before clearing his throat. “I’m still curious about that too.”

Ron’s brows arched before he crossed his arms. _“Really?”_

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly, trying not to be amused. “One minute she was taunting about Malfoy’s life coming to an end and the next I knew she was in the painting.” 

“That’s odd,” Coil mumbled, and Harry had to bite his lip to stop from smiling.

“If it helps, I saw the same thing,” Malfoy said, only he didn’t bother hiding his smile—well smirk.

“Did you?” Ron asked, eyes narrowed on them both.

“Maybe the curse ran out?” Malfoy said in a tone that was deceivingly innocent. “She was the one touching the portrait. It’s all I can think of.”

“Well, that’s something,” Coil said as he closed the notebook and shot Harry another glare before taking the portrait and leaving the room.

With only the three of them left, Ron took a deep breath that sounded more like a sigh. “The truth must have been cursed into the painting too, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Malfoy said with wide eyes and lips pursed. “That’s what happened and our stories match, don’t they Harry?”

“Harry?” Harry asked as he turned away from Ron and leaned into Malfoy’s personal space.

Malfoy shrugged. “I figure since you invaded my privacy, I get to call you whatever the fuck I want to. You should be grateful it wasn’t an insult.”

“Ah, there’s the snark I remember so much.”

Malfoy’s smirk turned soft, almost like a smile. “Some things never change.”

“And some things do,” Harry said with a quirk of his lips. A lot changed in the past few months—_a lot_.

“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed, free hand rising to move Harry’s hair out of his face. “They do.”

Ron snorted and Harry had to force himself to look away from Malfoy. “It looks like you’ll have no worries.”

“Huh?”

Ron nodded toward Malfoy. “With Malfoy—”

“Shut up, Ron.”

The smile on Ron’s face was not innocent, he knew exactly what he was doing, and Harry guessed it was revenge.

“No, I want to hear what Weasley has to say.”

Harry’s head snapped to Malfoy with a sense of dread. The way Malfoy’s eyes sparkled did not help any, it made it worse.

“What was it you said, Harry?” The false curiosity to his voice was enough that Harry was already planning his death.

“Ron.”

“Oh!” Ron snapped his fingers too theatrically—horrible acting skills. “That’s right, you said you had non-professional feelings about him.”

Harry closed his eyes. He should have sat in Neville’s compartment all those years ago instead of letting Ron join him.

When he opened his eyes, Ron was gone—_go figure_. He didn’t want to look at Malfoy at all. His hand was itching to drop Malfoy’s and slowly leave the room.

“Look at me.”

Harry petulantly shook his head. Nope, not happening.

A palm was placed on Harry’s cheek and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes opening on instinct.

There wasn’t a smirk, there was a tiny curve of Malfoy’s lips and his eyes were bright, far brighter than Harry could remember.

“You got to know me by my journal—a year worth of writing. I put so much of myself in there. Not just my plans for who I want to be, but my worries, my worst moments, my struggles. You know me more than I’ve ever let anyone.”

Harry couldn’t help but wince before a light laugh from Malfoy had it melting into a smile.

“But I don’t know you like that,” Malfoy whispered, thumb moving along Harry’s cheeks. “You’ve told me things, sure, but not in the way that my journal did. There’s an imbalance here and I’d like to get to know you too, okay?”

That sounded scary. He took a deep breath before covering Malfoy’s hand with his own.

“Okay. We can do that, anything you want to know.”

Malfoy stepped closer before placing a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “Thank you.”

They stood there staring at each other, hands still on Harry’s cheek before someone cleared their throat. It wasn’t Ron and thankfully wasn’t Coil. He didn’t recognize them, but they had on the familiar Auror badge.

“Excuse me,” Harry said to Malfoy before pressing a kiss to his palm in parting.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mister Potter. But Gregory Goyle is outside wanting to know what has happened. Lucius Malfoy had owled him. We’ve told both of them nothing as of yet.”

“Okay, let Goyle in.”

Harry looked over his shoulder as the Auror left. “Goyle wants to see you. Are you up for that?”

Malfoy took a shaky breath as he leaned against the desk. Equally shaky fingers ran through his hair.

_“Please.” _

“I’ll send him in. I can’t stick around; I have to update your father.”

Malfoy placed a hand on his chest, face paling slightly. “Oh.”

“I can tell him very little, if that’s what you want. Or nothing at all.”

There was silence, far longer than he expected as Malfoy looked at the ground, lip caught between his teeth.

“You can let him in too.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, knowing how much of a struggle Malfoy has had with his father.

When Malfoy looked up, the sparkle was gone, and all that left was a sadness he never wanted to see again. “I need to do this for me.”

That, Harry could understand. When he walked out of the room, Goyle immediately ran up to him.

“What’s happened?” Goyle asked, hands wringing together. “Lucius sent a letter saying that something had changed in the case.”

Harry smiled softly. “Malfoy is alive and safe.”

He had to catch Goyle when his knees gave out. “Whoa, careful there.”

“I knew he was alive.” It was said through tears, and his heart ached for Goyle.

“You were right.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course you can. I know he’ll be happy to see you.”

Harry expected Goyle to rush into the office, but what he didn’t expect was to be pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” Goyle repeated over and over. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to.”

It took several minutes to convince Goyle to let go. Gratitude from the friends and family in a case’s life was still hard for Harry to feel as if it was earned. He was just doing his job.

Right as Goyle was to enter the office, Harry stopped him, a question already forming.

“That mood globe you gave me, what does teal mean?”

There was raised brows as Goyle’s lips pursed in thought. “Endearment, I believe—fondness even.”

“Greg!” Malfoy yelled. “Shut up.”

“Oi! What did I do?”

Endearment. Harry’s eyes closed as he grinned. Endearment was something he could work with.

With one last look, Harry watched Goyle fall to his knees, shoulders shaking. Malfoy crouched down to his level before pulling him into a hug. Malfoy’s repeated, ‘I’m okay’ followed Harry into the rest of the flat before the door was closed, giving them privacy.

Harry looked around the still messy flat with a bit of sorrow. He’d miss coming around, but he’d miss Painting-Malfoy more. Although, the prospect of being able to talk to Malfoy in person was even better.

A hand clasped to his shoulder startled Harry. He glared when he realized it was Ron.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I did you a favour. I know you, Harry. You’d have said nothing.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Ron raised his hand in surrender before walking away slowly. “You’ll thank me eventually.”

“If it ends badly, it’s your funeral.”

The yells of disagreement followed Harry out the door and down the porch, where he almost ran into Lucius.

Lucius’ face was filled with worry, and it shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was. It was clear Lucius loved Malfoy. Whether it was toxic, he didn’t know, but that wasn’t up to him to decide.

“Well? What’s happened?”

“I found your son. A little shaken, but very much alive and he’d like to see you.”

* * *

**Friday, **

_Change. Change isn’t just making a difference in a routine or a way of thinking. Change is also an adjustment; I had to get used to the idea of everything being different. Change is also a development; I was developing not only myself but the path to get there. Change can be a reversal; I was reversing aspects of who I am and even the mentalities of such a thing. Change is also a transformation, a transition, a revision and a modification of bits of myself that are adapting. _

_And the most important one of all, change is a revolution. _

_Every definition of the word is me. I am overthrowing everything I’ve ever known, getting rid of parts of myself that were horrid and oppressive to others. Just as pureblood society is outdated, I am learning to be the progressive change that Muggleborns started—a radical change that will lead to a better future. _

_In a way, I feel as if I was starting over, but that too in of itself is a revolution. I was starting over and replacing it with a better me. Someone who had always been there, someone who was me but buried, I just hadn’t delved deep enough to meet them. _

_But now I want to. I want to see just who I can become and meet the person I know I am. As scary as change can be, I crave it—crave it just as much as I do validation. I don’t know if that person has been fully uncovered or if I still have to unearth more of me. _

_Even if it takes me years, I will dig out one positive part of me at a time. _

_And I’m no longer afraid._

—**Draco **

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheww that was a wild trip. I do want to emphasize that there is an epilogue after this that will be posted. So it's not quite the end just yet. 
> 
> I just KNOW that so many of you are feeling vindicated after reading this chapter. I know so many of you had guessed it all early on, midway and even up until the last chapter. Y'all are smart. I do hope there's at least one person that was surprised lmao. There was some foreshadowing along the way and some of you totally picked up on that. 
> 
> Draco's journal was a lot. Emotional for sure and it showed his progression as a character. Ending it with a final entry seemed fitting to me. But again, don't fret, there is still an epilogue that will follow this. Even if there wasn't, I do think this chapter said a lot of what I wanted to end the story with. But then again, I am a sucker for epilogues and there's some shit I want to get into lmaoo. Excited for the epilogue but also sad to know that it'll be last one. 
> 
> As for Lucius. One of the main points I was going for throughout the story was to show sides of him, a dichotomy of sorts. Part of me sympathises with his character in my story but then I also dislike the things he's done. That's where his character is multi-faceted and I hoped that came across. Draco struggled the whole journal when it came to his father. Whether it was reading the letters, talking to him, seeing him or even forgiving him. That struggle is still there but I wanted the impact of him choosing to see his father at the end to come across as big as the decision was itself. Seeing him isn't forgiveness, but it's something, and that's what matters. 
> 
> I'll probably say this again next update, but I am really grateful for everyone who has read this, whether if it was from the start or just recently. It means a lot to me, not a lot of people want to read WIP and y'all were the energy I needed to keep the inspiration going. So thank you. 
> 
> I do hope you liked this update, and I'll see you soon! 
> 
> —XxTheDarkLordxX


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